Saltwater and Blood
by The Sharra
Summary: As the last golden rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Rose took a deep breath and began her tale. "Kanzas was the first of us and Damia the last..."
1. Prologue: These Sins

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Oooh! Here's where I put my obligatory disclaimer! clears throat 

The Sharra does not own Legend of Dragoon or any other stuff that… uh, doesn't belong to her. Please don't sue. She has four cats.

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"Saltwater and Blood"

By The Sharra

Prologue: These Sins

"For the life of me I cannot remember

What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise?

For the life of me, I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins

We were merely freshmen…"

-- The Verve Pipe, "Freshmen"

Vellweb had been alive and bustling once, but time had worn away its glory until it was nothing more than a broken memory. It smelled to Rose of decay, violence, and merciless ambition that, like the city, had been doomed to fall and crumble to dust. '_How appropriate,'_ she reflected, rolling the small glass object between two fingers, _'that Zieg appear dressed as that man.'_ The recollection of his strong, smiling face twisted with such malice caused the warrior to hunch forward, doubling over as if gripped by a sharp pain. She banished the sight of him from her mind's eye, clutching the bead in her hand so tightly she thought it might break.

Diaz had liked to say that history was written by the victors and in a sense, he was right. What he hadn't realized was that history shifted and changed over time until it was warped into a mere semblance of the truth. 'He died a human 'hero'?' She ducked her head as a soft chuckle escaped her lips. It was an unfamiliar sound, strange and yet welcome in spite of the bitterness that colored it. History could have its heroes and its villains. Rose wouldn't try to change their 'truth', instead choosing to hold the reality of it close to her heart. This past was hers to remember and hers to regret. There had been more to her back then-the Campaign had been more than a man named Zieg. It had been Frahma, Charle, Michael, _Diaz,_ Syuveil. Belzac. Shirley.

Damia.

_"I don't like to be alone. Where is… everybody?"_

Kanzas.

_"Anybody… just satisfy me."_

_'Forgive me. You were right back then, when you said those words to me. No, not just then. Now. There was no reason for me… to judge you.'_

_"You just don't get it, Rose. You never will, even if you live to be a thousand. Swallow down your judgment because I'll be fucked if I'm going to listen to it. Take your pity, take your self-righteousness and get out."_

_"What will you do?"_

_"Me? Well, after I finish off Frahma, I'll take a nice trip to hell. Syuveil and Damia have been waiting too long…"_

The blue bead in her hand was a nondescript thing with a hole drilled in the top so it could be worn as a pendant; semispherical, it was edged with gold that was so tarnished by the passing of years it appeared almost black. As she continued to turn it over and over, however, it caught the light of the late afternoon sun. Small bits of light caught the glass, picking up bits of green and turquoise that made her think of the waters Damia had so loved in life. To think that something so precious had almost been crushed beneath her careless feet…

"You found that in his room, right? Beneath that Divine Tree thing-it."

_"Kanzas was seeking salvation. That's the reason why he decorated the Divine Tree in this way…"_

Rose straightened as the silver-haired Wingly girl's arrival jerked her from her daze. Meru leaned forward to peer at the ancient bit of jewelry as she reached the top step, focusing an oddly intent gaze on the trinket Rose had found beneath the sculpture in Kanzas' tower.

She wasn't in the mood to deal with curiosity and idle questions, and Meru would be able to provide an abundance of both. No, there were more important things she could be thinking about right now. 'So many mistakes, Rose.' "I don't know what you're taking about," she murmured, reaching to unfasten the buckle of her belt pouch so she could tuck her newfound treasure safely out of sight

The scantily clad Water Dragoon merely snorted and waved a hand at her. "Hey, you're lying and you know it." Meru plunked herself gracelessly onto the step beside her, not the slightest bit bothered by the fact that she might be disturbing Rose's peace and quiet. She stretched her arms high over her head and let out an earth-shattering yawn that caused her somehow unwilling companion to edge away slightly. "Thought you might want to know," she garbled out around said yawn, "that Kongol finally woke up. You know, that Kanzas guy hit him really _hard_? Must've, to do that to a Giganto. I thought Miranda was going to go nuts or something, what with the way she was pacing until a minute ago-I think she's sweet on him." There was a brief pause as she reached up and behind to tighten the silk ribbon binding her hair. "Kongol. Not Kanzas. If she liked a ghost, that would be really weird."

_'Soa save me.' _Forcing back a sigh, Rose tucked the bead away and securely fastened the flap of the small purse. "I don't want to listen to your childish gossip right now!"

The words were harsh, but Meru could hardly take offense when the woman uttering them sounded so very tired. "If that's what you want, I guess," she remarked, leaning back on the crumbling stair and shifting her weight onto her palms as she did so. She snuck a ruby-colored glance at her cold friend and tilted her head slightly to one side, as if considering something. "You know, I bet you have a lotta fantastic stories."

Rose felt her lips tugged into a slight, distant little smirk. It felt so strange to smile, as if one wouldn't quite fit on her face. "No. I've never been much of a storyteller."

Meru lurched forward without warning, sprawling quite comically over Rose's lap as she fumbled for the belt pouch and the bead inside it. "C'mon! Just let me see it for a second!"

The other woman's eyes bugged out and she grasped at platinum locks, giving the beribboned ponytail a good, hard yank. The Wingly flopped back onto her backside with a short yelp of pain. "Do you mind?" Rose snarled, tugging the hem of her tunic back down with her free hand. She released her hold on the other woman's hair abruptly.

It wasn't all that surprising that Meru did little more than grimace and rub at the back of her head. For a dancer, she was fairly clumsy. When one fell flat on their face so often, they became used to silly little things like 'pain' and 'bruises'. "Do _you_ mind letting me see, then?"

_'Soa save me,'_ Rose thought a second time, allowing her hand to drift back to the small leather purse. Moments later, the young performer had that precious bead she'd so coveted. She watched as Meru squinted down at it, the girl sucking thoughtfully on one tooth as she slid her fingers over warm glass and smooth metal.

To the Darkness Dragoon's dismay, her… friend actually tossed the bead high into the air before reaching out to catch it. Rose reached out in an attempt to snatch it, but the other's quick hands caught it before she was able to. Apparently she wasn't all _that _clumsy… "This wasn't his," Meru stated seriously, smoothing her fingertips over it once more, almost lovingly. "It belonged to _her_." The first one chosen to wield the Blue Sea spirit-- that miserable girl sitting alone in her tower, wondering where everyone was.

Rose reflected on a fierce man with storms in his eyes and a lonely young woman torn between two worlds and, at that moment, found she could do little more than nod. "You're a Wingly. I'm not surprised you managed to sense it."

"Sadness." She folded both hands tightly about Damia's beloved pendant, closing her eyes against the bright light of the sunset. "And a lot of love."

It seemed to Rose as if she were trying to part the veils of time with whatever mysterious power she might happen to possess. Of course, that was impossible, but at that moment, she wouldn't have been at all surprised if Meru realized exactly what had happened so long ago.

"Be a pal and tell me a story, huh?"

"It doesn't have a happy ending, Meru."

_"Yes, I'm afraid to die. But the worst part about it is that I'd be alone in the dark forever. I-- I don't think I could stand that."_

_"Hn. If you die, I'm going to have to go to Mayfil and take your soul back from the Death City myself. You'd drive them insane."_

_"Well-- they might keep you!"_

_"Oh, probably."_

The Wingly's smile was slow and knowing, and as she slid the sphere of glass back into Rose's hand, it seemed to the human that she was suddenly wise beyond her years. "That's okay. Don't tell Al, but I've found out that most stories don't end with 'happily ever after."

As the last golden rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Rose took a deep breath and began her tale. She didn't know why she was telling this to Meru of all people. All she understood was that, at this moment, she wanted someone to remember in case she herself forgot. For now, it was important and that was what mattered.

"Kanzas was the first of us and Damia the last…"

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All right, there we go. A bit of a crappy prologue, but it is up and it is done. And that's something, I suppose. Plus I got to stick a bit of my bias toward Miranda/Kongol in there and that's always worthwhile… 


	2. Part One: The Origin of Storms

"Saltwater and Blood" 

By The Sharra 

Part One: The Origin of Storms 

"It's the nexus of the crisis 

And the origin of storms 

Just the place to hopelessly 

Encounter time 

And then came me..." 

-- Metallica, "Astronomy" 

The wedding of Shirley and Belzac took place on a cold, crisp autumn morning, just outside the safety of the city gates. No doubt the sun was expected to shine brightly upon the citizens of Vellweb, but unfortunately, that wasn't the case. 

Today really should have been perfect, absolutely and utterly perfect. The petite girl-woman raised her arm, palm facing upwards as if to catch a few droplets of the rain that would soon fall. She sighed. No one deserved happiness as much as Belzac and Shirley, and the dark clouds gathering on the horizon seemed to be an ill omen. 

Belzac, too, was flicking wary eyes towards the sky, and she could see even from where she sat that his hands were shaking from nerves. She bit back a giggle as Shirley soothingly patted his shoulder. 

"I don't think she'll mind, even if the entire sky pours down on her head," came the stuffy-sounding mumble from the man sitting next to her. 

Damia smiled hesitantly at Syuveil before glancing down. "No, probably not," she agreed, turning her attention to her heavy blue skirts; she'd walked through the brook to get there, and the hemline was heavy with water and stained with mud. She smoothed them down half-heartedly. "But it's good she's happy." 

The Jade Dragoon merely nodded and wrapped his robes more tightly about himself, turning his head to one side as he began to cough; his health had always been poor and the oncoming winter was already taking it's toll on him. His nose was runny, eyes watering, and he was frequently seized by a hacking cough. More and more often, the scholar had been seeking the healing of Shirley's Dragoon spirit, for what little relief it brought these days. 

_'We can't even take him to battle anymore. How can we use his powers if-'_

Damia buried her hands in the folds of her skirt to hide her clenched, white-knuckled fists, hating herself for thinking that way but unable to ignore the realization nonetheless. 

Why was she always thinking such things? This was meant to be a happy day; she shouldn't be brooding and feeling guilty while everyone else was smiling and laughing. 

Even the standoffish Rose was smiling from ear to ear, her fingers laced tightly with that of her own fiancée. She leaned over and whispered something to Zieg, who in turn poked her playfully in the side. 

A moment later, Rose's smile faded, her blue eyes colder now, and focused straight ahead. Damia followed her gaze curiously, unable to stop herself from sighing as she caught sight of the figure approaching. 

Kanzas stormed and swaggered more than he actually walked, the ends of his wild red hair fluttering just slightly as he drew closer to the group. That in itself was strange, as he normally moved so _quietly_, as light and graceful on his feet as a cat. The short fighter nodded to Shirley as he passed by the wedding circle, making no apology for his lateness and flat out ignoring Belzac to boot. 

"Typical," Rose muttered under her breath, the corners of her lips tilting downward. The blonde man sitting next to her winced and shook his head, reaching down to give her hand a quick squeeze. "Not today," he murmured, "okay, Rose?" 

Damia looked down the long bench that dominated the clearing, at Rose, Zieg, Syuveil… and then at the one empty spot left next to her-- 

_'Don't sit here, don't sit _here_…'_

Kanzas met her eyes, and, almost as if he read her mind, scowled. The bench actually rocked back slightly as he plopped down on it. 

"You did that on purpose!" 

"Rose! Not _now_." 

Kanzas raised one bright eyebrow at the Darkness Dragoon and smirked. "You really should watch that temper of yours. Don't you know your little outburst is disrupting my dear kinswoman's wedding?" 

He was a man that brought storms with him wherever he went, rarely showing remorse for his actions or seeking approval. The common folk that dwelt in the lower depths of the city the refugees spoke of him in whispers and with fear in their eyes. 

Perhaps the fear was well deserved, for Kanzas was the one Diaz sent to do the 'dirty work' the rest of them were unwilling to do. The Emperor denied the fact when Zieg had confronted him about it, but everyone knew the rumors… 

And of all the people he could have been sitting next to, it had to be her. It wasn't that she disliked him so much-most of the time he just ignored her anyway-as it was that his presence set her on edge…. _'Like the storms do.'_

The half-mermaid hugged herself tightly as Belzac led Shirley into the center of the woven circle of tree limbs, grasping the redhead's smaller hands in his own large ones. His boyish nervousness would have been funnier if she weren't so painfully aware of the presence of the oncoming rain, and the violent man now sitting next to her. 

_'Storms,'_ she thought yet again, closing her eyes at the low roll of thunder that rumbled through the sky. 

"It'll be a good one," Kanzas said lowly, and smiled to himself. 

"Yes. I'm sure it'll be a beautiful wedding." 

_'He's not talking about the wedding, Rose,'_ she thought absently, red eyes fixed on the couple standing in the middle of the low-woven ring of branches. The two of them looked so happy, and, in Belzac's case more than a little terrified. Damia forced back another small laugh as the man squared his broad shoulders and took a deep breath in an obvious attempt to steady himself. In spite of this, his hands shook and he fumbled with the length of cord in his hands, the knots he was working on coming out rather awkward and flimsy. His bride merely smiled; a calm, serene gesture, and helped him bind the cord, her small fingers nimble and quick as she tied first their left hands, then their right together. Shirley didn't even need to look at what she was doing, it seemed, for all the while she gazed up at him. When she spoke the words that would bind them as man and wife, her voice was clear and ringing, not a trace of doubt marring their meaning. 

What must it be like to be to have such complete and utter faith in your future that you could speak with that sort of conviction? 

_"I am woman. Cherish me, for it is I who give life to all things…"_

_"I am-I am man. Honor me, for it is I who bring growth…"_

At that very moment the skies opened up and poured rain upon the wedding party. Kanzas had been right about the weather, just as she'd known he would be. Shirley let out a startled yelp as her crown of wildflowers was swept from her head by a sharp gust of wind. The wreath rolled across the ground, a rather pathetic sight as one by one, the petals were torn from it. Damia's hair was whipped wildly about her face as the wind howled fiercely, its cry carrying with it stinging needles of rain and sharp little darts of ice. 

"Bloody hell!" 

_'Now this is a storm',_ she couldn't help but think, watching the bright flicker of lightning that knifed through the dark skies. She could feel the power of it, humming just beneath her skin, and her whole being soared in response. "This is-" Terrible, really… 

_"-great,_ isn't it, cousin?" Kanzas' laugh sounded, brash and sharp over the whistling wind. "The perfect way to start off your marriage." 

:::::: 

It could be said that the self-proclaimed Emperor Diaz was more than generous offering his personal estate to house the celebrants-not to mention the happy couple, but Kanzas had learned early on that men like Diaz were rarely as selfless as they liked to pretend. This celebration wasn't being held because the Emperor gave a damn about the Dragoons. It was being held to make Diaz look good, and to strengthen his weakening bonds with his seven ' greatest warriors.' 

Kanzas found it more than a little funny the smoky, hazy room he stood in was nearly empty. '_Guess most of the 'normal' people didn't feel like braving the storm,' _he thought nastily, and took a quick swig of wine from his goblet. It was good stuff, smooth going down but with a nice kick at the end. '_Does wine _have_ a 'kick'?' _The man wondered, licking a few of the red droplets from his lips. 

"She'll be okay, you know," the blonde scholar sitting next to him said, an annoying, almost consoling note in his voice. 

He stared at Syuveil wordlessly and downed the last of his wine. By Soa, he was so sick and tired of everyone assuming he was worried about Shirley. It wasn't like she was the little kid he'd once protected; she was a grown woman, more than able to take care of herself should Belzac turn out to be some kind of drunken whoremonger. "Course she will," he stated offhandedly, tossing the blown glass cup up into the air. 

"Kanzas, that's _real glass_! If you drop it-" 

Bony, calloused fingers caught the fine stem of the vessel, and he brandished it at him with a flourish. "Besides, if Belzac hurts her, I'll just cut his throat while he sleeps." 

The Jade Dragoon shifted uncomfortably at the admission, feeling all the worse about hearing it because it was probably _true. _"I don't think it'll come t-" A strange expression flickered across his pale face, and he raised his hand slowly to cover his nose. 

Kanzas merely blinked as Syuveil let out a loud, messy-sounding sneeze. "Go dry off before you swoon or something." 

Syuveil frowned at him, wounded by the casual remark. His health was a sensitive issue; because of it, he hadn't seen much combat. Even Damia had slain more men in these past months than he had. No, instead he was reduced to researching the workings of the Air Cities and coming up with battle plans… "I won't swoon!" he bit out, then wiped his nose with the sleeve of his robe. "Soa, I'm a grown man. Stop _mothering_ me." 

"I _don't _mother." 

"You do." 

"Don't," Kanzas sneered. 

"You d-oh, Soa, never _mind_." The other shrugged his shoulders in defeat, shaking 

his head in a gesture of pure exasperation. The loud crackle of lightning caused him to jump, the brilliant flash reflecting off of the valuable glass windowpanes. _'That one must have hit right outside the city gates.'_

"Heh." Kanzas rose from the bench and went to stand in front of one of the large, arched windows. As if in response to his words, another bolt streaked through the sky. He placed his palm on the cool surface and grinned in satisfaction. "Now _this,_" he proclaimed, "is a _storm_." 

Yet another flicker, another satisfying crash that illuminated the sky just long enough for him to see the circle of towers that loomed above Diaz' 'castle'. The smile faded from his face, leaving coldness and shadows in its wake. _'My cousin married to the half-Giganto. It's about time.' _

He didn't care that he'd displaced for a new protector. It had only been a matter of time before she stopped hiding behind him; the minute their Master had brought the gigantic slave to their ramshackle farm, he'd known how things would be. None of it mattered. It was all right that she didn't need him anymore… 

He was peachy-fucking-keen with the entire situation. 

"The food smells wonderful." _'Ever the brilliant conversationalist, eh, Syuveil?' _He knew Kanzas well enough to realize that he was about to drift into one of his moody, violent spells. Though he often tried to snap Kanzas out of it, he never really succeeded. Not even Shirley had that sort of hold on the Violet Dragoon. 

Kanzas cast an idle glance over his shoulder at the long table. Piled high on the rough surface were platters of meats, sweet breads, braised lettuce--it was the kind of rich food that made his mouth water and his stomach growl, even if he wasn't hungry. "Now if only 'His Highness' would get here, so we can eat." 

Zieg would be happy about that; the blonde man was practically draped over the table, leering down at a steaming eel pie. If it meant a good meal, even the stalwart Red-Eye Dragoon would sit down at a table with Diaz. 

The others looked none-too-thrilled at the situation: Rose was frowning, constantly glancing over her shoulder at the arched doorway, while the half-blood, Damia… 

She stood at the far end of the chamber, in that one spot every room seemed to have; the place no light touched. Her forehead was pressed against the glass, hands clasped almost primly around the stem of her goblet as she hummed softly under her breath. 

_'This stuff is really really… good,' _the Blue Sea Dragoon thought to herself, smiling slightly. The sound of the rain pattering against the window was very soothing, and it would be all too easy to let herself be lost in the song of the water... 

Damia couldn't call the rains like the rest of the Fideal could, but times like these made her wish that she could summon up storms whenever she liked. _'Or keep them away,'_ she admitted to herself, a bit guilty at her enjoyment of the storm that had made such a mess of the wedding. 

_'Wherever the merfolk wander, storms are sure to follow…'_

It would be nice if that old myth were true; he was damned tired of the snow that always seemed to plague this time of year. Still, the thought of _Damia_, of all people understanding something like the rains… it was laughable. The chit couldn't even hold her own in battle without help. 

He shifted his gaze over to Syuveil, who glared right back at him. The green-clad man opened his mouth to say something that would, in all likelihood be quite cranky-sounding, but never got the chance to speak. 

The low, ominous creak of un-oiled hinges filled the room, and as the heavy clanking of armored feet met his ears, Kanzas scowled, cracking his knuckles absently and forgetting what it was he'd been about to say. "Dinnertime," he muttered under his breath. 

Diaz was a tall, broad-shouldered man who dwarfed the bulky guards that flanked him on either side. In the dim light, his fading brown hair took on a drab, gray cast that well matched his pale skin. "Leave us." 

The guards snatched up hasty bows and left the room as suddenly as they had arrived. All in all, Diaz' escorts were meant to be seen and not heard. _'Kind of stupid when you listen to that armor of theirs clang that way.' _

"So." 

_'Nice try, Zieg.'_

A moment of silence passed between the Dragoons and the aging, self-proclaimed 'Emperor', a cold, awkward kind of quiet that covered the room like an oppressive blanket. Diaz' flint-like eyes scanned each of them in turn, taking apparent note that Belzac and Shirley weren't there. Where they came from, it was tradition to consummate the union before attending any sort of celebration. 

Until the act was done, they weren't truly… _wed._ Kanzas flinched at the memory of playing 'witness' for the two. He really could have done without seeing Belzac climb into bed with his cousin, the woman who was the equivalent of his little sister. 

"Your generosity is as always…" Rose's smile was forced; not even the dimness of the room could hide the darkness on her pretty face. 

_'Poor, poor Rose. Always needing to believe in some sort of justice in this world. Of course, men like Diaz _must have some goodness_ in them.' _Unlikely. Maybe, out of all of them, she needed to believe in this war the most, and that Diaz' motivations for freeing the human race were unselfish ones. 

Truth be told, Charle Frahma was the leader of the rebellion, the hand that jerked about the strings of the puppet named Emperor Diaz. He wondered if Rose knew just how deeply Zieg's foster mother was involved in the war… _'I know something you don't know…'_

"It's… _humbling,_ really." 

_'Liar.'_

If Rose's grin was hesitant, then Diaz' was just a bit too open and friendly. "One must set a good example, milady," he remarked, inclining his head with a practiced motion that caused his dark beard to brush against his chest. The fine leather of the man's boots squeaked slightly as he strode over towards the table, and as he sat upon the large, throne-like chair that dominated one end of it, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers before him. "Sit with me, Dragon Knights, and we'll toast the union of two of our own." 

Someone made a small noise of outrage. It was little more than a squeak, but nonetheless, Kanzas looked towards the petite half-mermaid. Feeling not so much surprised as amused by the complacent girl's outrage; he snickered. 

Syuveil's cloak swished about him, the slim man rising with a half-hearted shrug to join the others already assembling around the banquet table. He caught Damia's elbow in a fatherly gesture as she passed by, guiding the girl, who was by now, slightly weaving on her feet. 

_'Such a gentleman.'_

One by one, the Dragon Knights joined Diaz at his feast until only Kanzas remained. 

_'Oh,'_ Damia thought dizzily, gulping back another mouthful of the smooth, thick wine. There were only three chairs left-that one on Diaz' right, and then the two side-by-side that were meant for Belzac and Shirley._ 'At least he won't be sitting next to me this time…_' Kanzas always sat next to Diaz at celebrations, which made sense as he'd all but been proclaimed the emperor's right hand. 

Diaz cleared his throat meaningfully at the wiry figure by the window. 

The glance slanted in his direction was warm, though not in a pleasant way. Kanzas' eyes were as burning embers, a hateful fire smoldering within that threatened to fan itself into an inferno at any moment. "Did you need something?" 

Damia couldn't help it; she guffawed, and though the drunken laugh was quickly cut off by Syuveil's elbow jabbing into her side, the damage had been done. The stares of reproach everyone aimed at her should have been embarrassing; should have caused her to slouch down and try to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. _'Should have, but isn't,'_ she noted, a smug sort of realization dawning. How nice, not to care about what other people thought of her… 

Rose watched disapprovingly as the redhead prowled over to Diaz. There was no other way to describe the way he walked; there were times like these when just the sight of him moving was enough to send chills running down her spine. '_You drift about like-' _Like a dragon, in some strange way. _'Soa, Father of All, you're just like Michael.' _He'd laughed at her the last time she'd told him that. 

The emperor didn't bat an eyelash as Kanzas plunked down into the high-backed chair alongside him. The wooden legs scraped over polished planks with a sharp grating noise that caused the black-haired woman to sigh. Dark wine sloshed over the rim of the glass, splattering over his forearm. '_Heh, you just hate it when I do that, don't you, Rosie'?_ he thought to himself. He gave her a tight little smile, placing his goblet on the table. Then, leaning back in his seat, he raised the dripping arm to his mouth-and ran his tongue over it, licking the red droplets away from his skin. 

Her lips tightened into a thin, white line, but to his disappointment, the woman remained silent, tearing a chunk of thick, hot bread away from the loaf Zieg offered to her. This was neither the time nor place to play one of Kanzas' games. Bad enough that she'd reacted that way at Shirley and Belzac's wedding. Something would have to be done to make it up to them- 

A sudden, short gasp from Kanzas drew her attention from her meal, and Rose looked up at him speculatively. The sharp features of his face had gone tight and pale, his jaw tightly clenched. Lips pulled back to expose teeth, twisting into an expression that vaguely resembled a sneer. 

_'Fuckfuckfuckfuck-' _Those words repeated themselves in his mind, a constant litany as that familiar shock of agony shot up his arm and seized hold of the rest of his body. _'Gods… damn you, Diaz._' One gloved hand slipped beneath the table. Feeling Rose's eyes burning into him, he turned his twisted sneer on her. Shaking fingers closed tightly about the small square of parchment the Emperor slipped into his hand. 

"If you want to act like one of my hounds, Kanzas, then perhaps you should go outside and dine with them." 

Syuveil let out a soft hiss in response to Damia's latest snort of laughter. He leaned over to the side, silently pleading with Kanzas to keep quiet until this sham of a party was over. "Damia," he whispered lowly, "I think you've had enough to drink for one night." As he reached out for her glass she frowned, scooting her chair to the side. The scholar made a mental note to keep her from drinking the next time she had the opportunity. It was strange that she never drank alcohol, what with Vellweb's water being so foul, but she did tend to keep odd habits. 

Another gulp of wine, followed by a sulky little pout as she turned her face to one side, deliberately moving the glass out of his reach. She was _fifteen_ years old. Why did they always have to treat her like such a child, anyway? 

Things were getting very tense, very quickly, and the half-mermaid swaying and complaining about this and that was only making matters worse. He flicked a green-eyed glance over those gathered around the long table, his free hand absently lifting to shield his mouth. The cough rasped itself free of his throat, causing his lungs to burn and his shoulders to ache. 

"Was that really necessary?" Zieg's voice was like steel, and he set the turkey leg he was gnawing on back down with a force that caused his plate to clatter. He knew neither of the men would welcome his interference, but that really wasn't the point. At any rate, he was used to Kanzas' sullen glares by now. Beside him, his fiancée let out a quiet sigh. Well, now it was _his _turn to stir up a bit of trouble-- she'd just have to deal with it. 

Diaz pulled his hand away from his servant's, the note slipping easily from his own fingers. The dark look he aimed at Zieg seemed almost out of place on his aging, handsome face. "Haven't we had this conversation before? Though your display of loyalty is to be commended, it seems he'd be all too willing to leave you for the carrion to feast on." He studied Kanzas for a moment, somehow making that critical look seem like nothing more than a passing glance. 

The Violet Dragoon blew out a breath of air between clenched teeth, his entire body sagging as the agony sparked one last time before vanishing. _'Wingly-lover, I need no help from the likes of you,' _he thought darkly, slipping the note into his worn belt pouch. The anger swelled and then tightened into an icy ball of irritation in his chest-- right where his heart would be, if he even had one anymore. "Keep flapping that tongue so freely and I'll cut it from your head," he snapped, resisting the urge to wipe the sheen of sweat from his face. 

A slight shrug from Zieg was followed by, "I'd really like to see you try one of these days." 

Syuveil resisted the urge to groan as Kanzas slammed his fist down onto the table, the lean warrior already rising from his chair. The small woman sitting next to him tilted her head to the side, tousled teal curls sliding down her shoulder at the motion. "If I'm old enough to be a Dragoon, then I should be able to drink at my friends' wedding. You're _always_-" He made another swipe at Damia's goblet, protesting that she would make herself sick, that perhaps she should wait-just a little while before drinking the rest of it. 

_'Kanzas, please control yourself just a little longer.' _This whole blasted mess was his fault. Diaz hadn't been the one to insist Kanzas 'celebrate' with the rest of them. It had been Syuveil who had pushed the other man into it, although he'd known it would end up causing some sort of trouble. Any second now, his friend would say or do something to lessen him in the eyes of those who should rightfully be kindred spirits. 

"Let the man-eater have her drink, scholar." Damia was nothing if not an easy target, and he'd be damned if it didn't feel good to lash out at someone he knew he could hurt. His lips curled into a vicious snarl of satisfaction as she tensed up, turning bright red. "Has to have fun while she can, eh? After all, it's not like as if she'll survive the war." 

Syuveil didn't have to worry about Damia's alcohol consumption much longer. She set the goblet down suddenly, ducking her head low. The casual cruelty with which he spoke caused her stomach to twist. _'Oh. He said it like it was nothing…' _

Or like it was true… 

_'Don't you cry in front of him. Don't you dare-'_

_"Kanzas! Don't you even think of walking out that door-come back here!"_

But that would mean he'd actually have to listen to one of them, wouldn't it? She folded her hands primly in her lap, remaining absolutely silent as Syuveil doubled over in another fit of coughing. That was all right, because she didn't really want to hear him tell her that things were 'just fine' and 'not to pay any attention to him.' 

That was easier said than done, wasn't it? As the door slammed shut, Rose settled back down in her chair, muttering a few choice words under her breath as she stretched her arm across the table, attempting to brush her fingers against Damia's hand. She leaned forward again, trying to bridge the distance between them, and as Damia watched the Darkness Dragoon, she saw her cool features were soft with pity. However, the table was just too wide, and pale fingers merely brushed against the tips of Damia's. 

Even if they did treat her like a child, at least they cared. _'Rose and the others are so kind to me.' _So very kind to one who had no right to be a Dragoon. It hurt her to admit it, but that horrible man's words were true. Her mother was Fideal- a Flesh-Eater, and Damia carried the taint of that legacy. 

_/'Fear not, child, for I give my life to you. My soul. Use them well.'_ / 

Delicately folded hands tightened into fists as the cool, sonorous voice of the Divine Water Dragon washed over her mind. Six months later, the memory of the dragon's sacrifice was still as sharp and stinging as sea air. 

_/'Strike true-'_ / 

_'You chose wrong, Divine Dragon, and everyone knows it.' _

It was good that they didn't all rush to comfort her at once- it would be too humiliating. There was only one thing she hated more than being alone, and that was being seen as an object of pity. She didn't know how long she sat there, half-heartedly participating in the awkward conversation that followed Kanzas' departure, but when she rose to her feet, they all turned to look at her. 

"Damia-" 

A thin little smile tugged at her lips and she shook her head, holding up her hand in a polite attempt to interrupt Rose. To her relief, it worked, the other woman letting out a faint little sigh. "The rain will clear my head." Being drunk wasn't all that amusing anymore. If anything, she now felt childish, stupid and just a bit… angry. _'I felt so very grown-up, too. Silly of me…'_

Her hand hovered above the doorknob for a moment, and she twisted about to study her quiet, unhappy friends. 'It's good that Belzac and Shirley didn't come here.' "Don't worry," she added, "I'll stay away from the bridges for a while." 

With that, she tottered out of the room and into the cold, damp corridor that would eventually lead her outside, into the cool embrace of the rain, leaving the Dragoons to their conversation and the suddenly silent emperor to his meal. 

: : : : : 

The stone of the wall was cool, and slightly damp against his back, the condensation seeping through the fabric of his shirt just slightly. He fingered the small, scrap of parchment Diaz had placed in his hand, squinting in the darkness in an attempt to make out the sign that had been scrawled on the surface. '_Who becomes one of the dolls tonight, 'milord'?'_

A soft curse escaped his lips as a flash of lightning illuminated the note and the name upon it. '_You absolute bastard. Not taking any chances, are you?' _He whistled out a breath through his front teeth. _'At least you get good use out of your 'hound.' _

Forcing back the swell of anger caused by Diaz and this damned stupid day in general, Kanzas shook the goblet in his hand carefully, noting in dismay how little of the red stuff was swishing at the bottom of it. Huh! Almost empty. Pity that; he really should have taken a bottle before he'd gone… 

Soft slippers rustled over the sweet-smelling rushes spread over the floor, and he shifted his eyes to the side to take in mud-stained skirts and mussed teal hair. His lip curled at the sight of the half-blooded girl, mouth curving into something that bordered on a sneer. 

Damia quietly pulled the door shut behind her, scuffing her feet absently over the floor as the worn brass hinges creaked. _'It's so quiet out here that everything sounds so much louder…' _

Including the sudden, somehow mocking sound of another person clicking their tongue against the bottom of their mouth. Click. Click. Click. She winced reflexively as she turned around, not at all surprised to find Kanzas leaning against the wall at the far end of the corridor. 

He crumpled the piece of paper he was holding in his hand and popped it into his mouth. She couldn't help but stare, feeling herself tense at the cold little smirk on his face. For some reason, she thought of a tightly coiled spring-barely controlled, tense and ready to snap forward at any moment. 

Diaz' message was washed down with a bit of wine, the now-pulpy ball scratching uncomfortably at his throat as it went down. "Head for the bridges," he rasped out at her as she uncertainly started toward the opposite end of the corridor, "maybe you'll fall and do Vellweb a favor." 

He was gratified to see the newest Dragoon stiffen and recoil as if struck. _'You just never fight back, do you? Fine. You deserve whatever you get, then.'_

_'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.' _The words rang as a litany in her mind, and the closer she drew to him, the more rapidly the chant repeated itself._ 'Shut up. Shut up. Shut up shut up shutupshutupshu_tup-' 

Kanzas followed her with his eyes as she moved to pass him. The skin of his thumb slid along the warm glass stem of the goblet and the smirk on his face widened as he clucked his tongue one final time. 

Click. 

_"Shut up!"_ She spun about, tottering dangerously on her feet as she lashed out with one small fist. 

Though startled, Kanzas easily sidestepped the blow, feeling the slight rush of cool air as her punch flew by his face. _'I'll be damned.'_ He pushed himself away from the wall with one foot, "What is it you want, you little twit? Wanted to show off the shiny new spine you're growing?" 

"You were horrible to say those things," she whispered. Her pale hand fell back to her side, a slight tremor running through it. The anger twisted in her belly, a cold, heavy sort of fury that Damia couldn't fight off. 

One bright eyebrow arched and as he lifted the wine glass back to his lips, he snorted, causing a little of the liquid to spray over the rim of it. What she called 'horrible', he called truth. Everyone knew the stories about the merfolk and just what it implied about Damia's 'tastes'. "How drunk _are _you, half-breed?" A quick swallow, a trail of warmth burning in his gut, and the wine was gone. 

Apparently, the Blue Sea Dragoon was quite, quite drunk, as she leaned forward and poked him in the chest hard enough that he winced. "Drunk enough," she whispered tightly, eyes glistening with tears, "that I'm not afraid of Diaz' pet _hound_!" 

The storm was running through her body, and though she'd been humiliated just minutes ago, she still felt more daring than she ever could have without it. _'I'm not afraid of him,'_ she realized, an undercurrent of smugness running just beneath the surface of her angry thoughts. _'He can't do anything to me because… I'm a Dragoon, too.'_ Right or wrong, she was one of them. '_The others won't let him.'_

His expression was carefully blank, the way it always did when someone mentioned the emperor's name, but she could see flashes of lightning within his eyes and she almost laughed, laughed at his reaction, because she was right and- 

Pain stabbed through his hand and wicked up his arm as he quite literally crushed the goblet he was holding. This wasn't his _night_... He hissed suddenly, allowing the broken remains to fall from his hand and to the floor, where the glass shattered further. 

_'Oh, there's blood,'_ was her horrified realization, eyes widening until they were as round as saucers. 

"Miranda, Mother of All," he grit out, hunching forward to pick at the shards embedded in his hand. 

The clear sound of glass striking stone snapped Damia out of her dazed shock. She blinked a few times, lunging forward to grasp at his wrist. "I'm sorry-I didn't mean to!" she cried, tightening her fingers about his arm about his arm as he attempted to jerk it away. A dangerous little voice whispered in the back of her mind to be careful, about how easily this could go wrong. '_You know, you know what you might do-'_ "Let me see it. Kanzas, I-" 

"Don't fucking touch it," he snarled, casting a surreptitious glance toward the door of the dining hall. Oh, it would be quite easy to hit her, but he didn't hold with that sort of thing. Not to mention that it would be likely to make her cry. If they got much louder, then one of them would wander out here to investigate and that was the last thing he wanted. 

Surprisingly sharp fingernails gripped one of the larger slivers, attempting to work it from the flesh of his palm. The man growled low in his throat, jerking his head in a short nod to indicate that she could continue-at least for now. 

Damia bit her lip and tossed the splinter aside, forcing herself to ignore the cruel, savage pull of the blood and the emotion whispering through it. _'I'm not like the others!'_ she reminded herself, the rising panic replacing the anger and regret surging through her veins. It was usually easier for her to ignore, even on the battlefield the magic of flesh and blood didn't tear at her this way. She couldn't focus-she was too upset, too dizzy. 

_'Too damn drunk,' _she understood, too late. 

A single droplet of red rolled down his hand to splatter on the floor. It left a dark smear on the skin and she studied it in fascination as she grasped at another bit of glass. 

Everything about her was… off, suddenly. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen blood before, or killed men in battle. The woman kept leaning closer to his hand, absently mumbling something about not being able to see well in the darkness. 

"What, are you blind?" Kanzas snapped, his gaze drifting over the flickering torches illuminating the darkness of the corridor. "It's brighter than th-" His harsh words were cut off by his own startled gasp as her sharp fingernails pierced his skin. All he could think at that moment was _'predator'_, the slight figure lurching forward even while trying to shove his arm away from her. Her tongue fell upon his hand, feeling like warm rain as it trailed over the blood-smeared skin. _'Holy hell.'_

_**'Hate them all, none of them understand, Shirley's gone, who am I? Murderer's hands, I was the first of them, first of the Dragoons, Diaz's dog, animal, child-killer-'**_

The intensity of Kanzas' emotions caused her knees to buckle, and she swayed forward against him, barely even noticing that he failed to push her away. 

_'Such pain',_ that distant, rational part of Damia thought-the human part of her. She could 'hear' his heart through the almost imperceptible pulsing of his blood. It sounded like the drums of her mother's people, so fierce and strong that she couldn't help but sink her blunt teeth into the flesh of his arm. 

His neck arched back reflexively at the raw pain and he grit his teeth to keep from screaming. The teal-haired half-breed made a strange sound low in her throat, almost a keen. _'Flesh-eaters,'_ he thought crazily, _'they really are-' _"Get back," he rasped out in an odd, strangled sort of voice. He pulled away the arm he had reflexively used to catch her; tangling his fingers in the unkempt strands of her hair and using them try and yank her away. "Dragoon or no, I'll break your neck if you don't stop." 

How funny that he'd never noticed her eyes were the very color of blood. She gazed up at him, her human teeth scraping away bits of skin as he quite literally tore her mouth from his arm. The pale, sad face had taken on a decidedly eerie, knowing slant and he could see even in the torchlight that her teeth were tinted pinkish-red. She moved her lips a few times as if she were trying and failing to form words. 

Damia skittered away from him as suddenly as she had 'attacked', covering her mouth with both hands. A pathetic little whimper escaped the Blue Sea Dragoon and she shook her head violently, staring at the damage she'd done. '_Oh, Soa, oh, Soa, oh, no.'_ He would tell the others and then they would know just how much she was like the Fideal who had earned the wrath of the dragons. "I didn't mean to," she choked. "Kanzas, I'm sorry!" 

Kanzas had passed through a village years before the war where the humans within were slowly starving to death. They'd grasped at his master's cloak, pleading and begging for food. Looking at her, he was suddenly reminded of those humans. _'Starving.'_ "You keep repeating yourself," the man stated vaguely, smoothing his palm down the wound she'd made. 

"Please don't tell," she whispered from behind her hands. 

Before he could respond, she began moving backwards down the hallway, a slight figure clothed in blue and bathed in red, a rustle of skirts that suddenly bolted for the door and flung it open. With a backward, pleading glance at him, she darted out into the fiercely raging storm, heedless of the wind and rain that stung her face. 

The rain pattered on the cold stone floor and the heavy slab of wood she'd left open swung slightly back and forth, creaking. 

He lifted his arm up to allow the light of the torches to bathe the small furrows gouged into his arm by blunt teeth. "She _bit _me," he murmured disbelievingly. "That bitch _bit _me…" 

: : : : : 

The quill scratched over the rough surface of the parchment, a head sparsely covered with snowy white hair bowing over the lines he wrote. The tangled length of the old man's beard brushed against his knees, as pale as the rough scholar's robe he wore. 

Cai Morin had been a citizen of Vellweb for thirty-one years. He'd traveled from the Life City with his young son shortly after Charle Frahma and the Human chieftain named Diaz had founded the settlement. 

When the Wingly ruler and her Human lover had sought the aid of the Divine Dragons in protecting Diaz's enslaved race, Cai himself had scribed the man's speech to the growing colony. 

He'd witnessed the ascension of the first Dragon Knight when the newcomer Kanzas had struck the killing blow against the traitorous Divine Thunder Dragon, and he'd been there when the Winglies had declared war on the Human race. 

Yes, Cai Morin had seen many things in his seventy-four years of life, including the gradual corruption of Emperor Diaz himself. _'This will be more than a war between Human and Wingly when all is said and done,' _the old man realized sadly, reaching over to dip the quill's tip into the inkwell by his arm. 

Lightning crackled through the air suddenly and Cai looked up, watching the slight shadow of pattering raindrops on the oiled sheet of parchment that covered his window. Not everyone, it seemed, had expensive glass sent to them from Ulara. 

Tomorrow, he would go forth and give another speech against Diaz. He had done so the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that… So he would continue until others realized what Cai himself had. 

Diaz… That man had been so much more in the past. There had been fire in his eyes and the desire to give his people a place to live in freedom. 

Power corrupted over time, as it was wont to do-as it had done with the Fideal, the Winglies. The man that ruled over Vellweb was rapidly becoming no more than a tyrant, attempting to bend others to his will. _'It didn't used to be like this.' _When had that determined young man become such a cold, manipulative politician? Somewhere along the line, Diaz had changed, and it had taken Cai Morin far too long to accept that fact. 

It was only a matter of time before the people began to rise up against their ruler. He didn't know when, or what the last straw would be; all he understood was that it would happen. The question was, whom would the Dragon Knights stand with? _'I know where Kanzas' allegiance lies. Soa only knows what the others will choose to do.'_

Cai Morin, former scribe to Emperor Diaz and the Lady Charle Frahma finished penning his speech and sat back, closing his eyes wearily. 'This night was meant for celebration, old fool.' The rest of the city was likely toasting the union of Lord Belzac and Lady Shirley and here he sat, alone in his home with naught but his dark thoughts for company. 

Dear Seela had been lost five winters ago, and their sole child was now a soldier for Gloriano. Fort Magrad wasn't so very far away, yet on nights like these, Philip might as well be on the other side of the continent. 

He capped the quill using a bit of old wax and rose to his feet. One hand reached behind him to rub at his stooped back as it creaked. His joints pained him terribly when it rained… 

_'Tomorrow is another day.'_ The light of his candle shrouded the room in a soft glow, flickering shadows dancing along the walls as the aging scribe crossed the short distance from his desk to the tiny, rumpled bed in the corner. _'Another day to try…'_ He blew out the small stub of candle he held, placing it on the crudely carved nightstand by his bed. 

It didn't take long for him to drift off. 

Perhaps it was a merciful thing that Cai Morin slept so heavily that night. When his door swung gently open to reveal the hooded figure clad in tattered peasant clothing, he didn't stir. 

_'Mayfil waits for you, old man_,' the assassin thought to himself. He moved with a cat-like sort of grace and his boots made nary a sound as he crept across the hard-packed dirt floor. The occasional flicker of light caused by the storm outside lifted the veil of darkness that might have been a hindrance, otherwise. 

Though the killer didn't hesitate, his hands were strangely gentle as he pressed the elder's face into the feathery pillow. _'Not just for you…'_

When some unfortunate friend happened to pay Cai a visit, they would realize he'd died painlessly in his sleep. 'It was a blessing in disguise,' they would say, 'he was getting so very old.' That's what they would think; no one need know that another had given him a gentle nudge to the gates of the Death City. 

The killer returned to his home mere minutes after arriving at his target's small hut, knowing friends and family would be none the wiser about his dark deed. He knelt in the dark, unwelcoming shadows that filled the windowless tower and there he whispered the truth to a room full of bloodstained dolls. 

It would be their little secret, theirs to hold and cherish until the yawning blackness of hell came to claim him for his sins… 

Oof, let's get these obligatory story notes out of the way! I used the name 'Fideal' for Damia's people. The fideal was a fairy who wanders about lakeshores, yes, seducing men and then drowning them. It seemed fitting, with the frequency mermaids pop up in game. The 'Fideal' in this fanfic are the strongest of the mermaids, driven to near extinction by the Divine Dragons. In the present 'game', the stuff you face happens to be fodder. Nothin' all that powerful there. 

As for the whole spin on mermaids being cannibalistic, I read on that some mermaids were known to drink blood. I just went a step further with that and, er, there you go.


	3. Part Two: Hunger

"Saltwater and Blood"

By The Sharra

Part Two: Hunger

"And where does evil lie, in the heart, in the eye, is it a guest without a host?

And does your mind concede to what your body needs, to what a silent hunger craves most?

And bending word to the limb, falling out, giving in, will you see all that Earth would conceal?

Below the melting land and underneath the desert sand?

Is the desperate voice inside you even real?"

--ThouShaltNot, "Come a Time"

Three steel points glinted on the back of the man's hand, their otherwise fine sheen dimmed by the glittering of row upon row of purple scales. Thin, chapped lips curved into a smile as he dragged the razor-sharp tips over the thick hide of his mount. A low, rumbling growl reached his ears before it was snatched away by the biting wind. _'That's the spot, eh, Keraunos?_'

The fine, strong wings of his vassal dragon cut through the air as he rose higher and higher into the sky. Large puffs of steam curled from Kauranos' nostrils, the puffs of his breath freezing to a cool, silvery-white.

The warm glow of Shirley's Dragoon spirit stood out like a beacon against the darkness and she nodded shortly as she met his gaze. Though he couldn't make out her expression from this distance, he knew her red-brown eyes were cold, and at the same time a bit saddened by what she was preparing to do. He spared her little pity, giving her a short, sharp nod as he began to slip from beneath the ropes holding him to the dragon.

To say the pair of Winglies had acted foolishly was an understatement. Vellweb was nestled in the middle of a deep valley, surrounded by rolling hills that soon smoothed out into frigid, snowy plains. It was a difficult trek by foot and anyone approaching was easily spotted from a great distance. Though the two soldiers had taken advantage of the break in the snow, hiding themselves on the muddy ground and camouflaging themselves with the muck, the guardsmen posted around the city had spotted them long before they'd taken to the sky.

Shirley bit back a startled yelp as the lean warrior launched himself from the back of the dragon, the wind tearing at his clothing and whipping his hair about wildly as he plummeted downward. Silly to be so concerned about him doing something _dangerous_, but—did he really have to _do_ that _every time_? _'Kanzas, you'll send me to an early grave!'_

Eos' vaguely irritated thoughts brushed against her mind; a reflection of her own exasperated worry.

The air about her suddenly felt alive with electricity, causing her own wind-blown hair to crackle about her face. She shielded her eyes with one hand against the brilliant purple light that consumed Kanzas' falling figure, spots dancing over her vision as the lightning shot outward. As Shirley dropped from Eos, she sighted down the swiftly moving form of the remaining scout. The young man was as a blur, a silver streak that darted this way and that, causing the White Silver Dragoon to bite her lip in frustration.

By Soa, this was better than _sex_. The energy that surged through his body caused him to cry out, as did the angry shouts from the Winglies he was quite literally dropping in on. His lips pulled back to expose his teeth in a cruel, feral smile, the thin membranes of his wings hissing audibly as he came up from his dive.

His target, for the most part gave only token resistance, his hands sparking as they were surrounded by a halo of bright light. Kanzas grunted, twisting his body to one side so that the magic shot harmlessly past him. "Too slow!" he snarled.

Another streak of magic followed, a mere second after the other. The sneer on his face widened as that, too, was dodged and he thought to himself, _'Hn. Far too slow…'_

Their bodies made harsh contact, armor scraping over armor and steel clashing with steel. The Wingly screamed out a curse at him, thrusting upward with his sword, in an attempt pierce the throat of the man hovering slightly above him. Kanzas slid to the side, gasping reflexively as the sword slid through a gap in his weapon, hissing between two points of the claw. A sharp jerk of his head prevented the fatal blow, white-hot pain trailing along his cheek as the tip of the sword opened a long, deep cut along his jawline.

Couldn't be—shouldn't be. It was unbelievable, the pale-haired fighter thought madly, moving in a wild spiral through the sky; unbelievable, and yet so _fitting_ that these stupid, rebellious little _beasts_ take up arms with the primitive dragons. He heard the soft, inexplicable whisper of the human's arrow as it shot toward him, a silvery thing that seemed far too delicate, somehow. No, it wasn't so much a whisper as a _chime_, a pure gentle sound that he logically shouldn't be able to hear.

As pearlescent scales gleamed in the moonlight and wings that beat a rapid tattoo brushed the side of its enormous companion, the Shirley's opponent grit his teeth. Logic…? What did logic have to do with _any_ of this?

He didn't want to die and was surprised by the icy wave of fear that seized him. Fear was a funny thing, he thought almost hysterically, it was like your insides wanted to crawl out and leave your body behind so that they could get as far away as possible. _'Archangel, guide and protect Your Servant as I pass through the Gates…'_

Finger shaking as he reached out to tap the oval-shaped gem embedded in his gauntlet, he breathed out a faint, "confirmed" into the simple communicator. One last tap, and the gentle glow that had surrounded the jewel snuffed out. The words weren't grand, or noble the way he'd wanted them to be. How sad, as they were probably the last ones he'd ever speak… _'I actually wrote down what I would say to them—'_ Another arrow flew past, and he flinched, shifting the longspear and moving to brace the wooden shaft against his side. It was time to greet the Creator—

Kanzas closed his hand around his own opponent's ankle as the slim man vaulted upward, smirking absently as he pulled his arm back. The Wingly screamed as the claw sank into the exposed skin behind his knee. Damn freak wasn't the only one with good aim. He could see the fear in those unnatural eyes as the man thrashed about, lips moving to chant a feeble spell. _'You see? We're not just a rumor. Too bad you won't make it back to tell Frahma—'_ "Atomic Mind!"

There was a shower of sparks followed by a strange sort of noise—a zip, a buzz, a sharp, crackle like static. He twisted his claw free, tearing skin and muscle and watching the charred body jerk about with a distant sort of amusement. _'Like a puppet on strings.'_ A puppet that smelled of cooked meat.

And as the Wingly plummeted toward the ground, his companion screamed—

"Soa forgive me," Shirley murmured, making a quick warding sign against evil. Kanzas grimaced absently at the familiar gesture. Always a prayer, always a plea for forgiveness; some distant part of him wondered that she still spent every night praying in the Shrine located in the lower reaches of the city.

Wind whistled in the Dragoon's ears as he swept downward, the fierce calls of the vassals piercing the now quiet night. He snickered softly to himself; how amusing that the Humans' victories were the dragons' own now. Keraunos and Eos had known not to lift a single claw in attack, and though he felt his own mount's disappointment as clearly as if it were his own, that didn't stop the Violet Storm Dragon from trumpeting for all to hear.

"Why did they do something like that?" she breathed as she followed after him, mystified. The healer landed softly on the ground, easily locating the battered, broken body of her enemy. However, as soon as she asked that question, she closed her mouth, realization dawning. _'Such a_ waste, _just to tell the rest of them that Vellweb really does have the dragons.' _Even to confirm that the Dragoons actually existed, though Flanvel had already fallen to their attack—no survivors. _'There's no reason for that.'_

Those men had been a sacrifice, sent on a suicide mission to confirm the blathering of Winglies who had survived the fall of human slave markets. They had approached the city, knowing they were as good as dead, but before they'd been killed, they'd relayed their discovery to whatever command post they'd been assigned to.

Shirley had long since accepted that as a Dragoon and the rush of aggression that followed every transformation; she was meant to destroy as well as save, but there were still times when she heard the soft whisper of 'murderer' in her mind.

He snorted, kneeling down beside the man she'd killed—or what was left of him. "Barely even real Winglies." What was the word—? "Expendable to the bastards. They probably volunteered for the job."

That hadn't even been a battle so much as a scuffle. Any human fighter worth his salt would have been able to tell their power level was low. Likely, they'd barely been allowed to be born, and had hoped to lighten their families' shame by charging in, dying in some glorious battle where the odds were horribly stacked against them.

Kanzas had learned long ago that there was no honor in death, no glory in war. In the end, there was only your weapon, your opponent, and that flash of terror on their face as they realized their time was up—

The long, elaborate dagger slid free of its sheath at his armored calf, and he flipped it about, running his thumb over the keen edge of the blade.

"What are you doing?" It was a sharp cry, almost angry, really, but he didn't look up as the weapon plunged into the somewhat flattened, side of the Wingly, sawing neatly through skin and fat.

"Bringing Syuveil a present," he snapped back, feeling a rising urge to slap her. Why did she have to get so high-and-mighty about this sort of thing when all was said and done? "Take a deep breath and avert your eyes if you've got such a problem with it, cousin."

Occasionally, he'd helped the scholar with a couple of his 'experiments', so he was familiar enough with what the inside of a corpse looked like. Hell, he probably would've known where to find everything even if Syuveil didn't cut up dead men in front of him.

Dark, dripping, it resembled something that belonged on a dinner plate rather than an actual body part. The impact of the ground had warped it out of shape, and even more fluid seeped from a large gash in the center of the organ. He frowned at the destroyed membrane within the liver, watching the secretions from the gall bladder run down his hand as he held it up.

Slim fingers snapped out, closing about his sinewy wrist and squeezing hard enough that he resisted the urge to wince. Soa, but the woman had even quicker hands than he did. "Let go," was his irritable reply.

She sighed wearily, and then leaned closer to him, so that their faces almost touched. "You do such terrible things to them-- I don't want to see it again. Please."

Kanzas studied his cousin's eyes, her _reddish-brown _eyes and turned his face to the side so that he wouldn't have to see them any longer.

_/"Ma, why are they such a funny color?"/_

His mother had slapped him for it, he recalled, then given him a good, hard shake and told him never to mention it again. From the moment he was old enough to understand, the other slaves on the farm had begun to drill certain facts into his skull. He wasn't to question the Winglies, their Masters—Humans were just weak enough as to need their protection; and he was never, ever to draw attention to his cousin's eyes. The first of those obviously hadn't stuck with him, so he figured the second might as well. "Nag." In the end, it was best to just brush her off—like she was a bug of some sort.

He twisted free of her grip and rose to his feet. The dark, electric energy coursing through his body was dulling now, taking with it that surge of raw aggression and leaving only hatred and regret in its wake. Kanzas never really understood that, the regret he felt. Perhaps it was because the soul of the dragon inevitably left, taking the _power_ with it. If he weren't such a pitiless bastard, he'd think he felt very… cold standing there, holding a dead man's liver so nonchalantly in his hand. Really, the only thing that bothered him at that moment was the soft glow of light around him as his wings faded, leaving him bound to the earth once more.

The interior of the leather pouch was oiled, and with good reason. Though he wasn't all that bothered by the idea of bodily fluids seeping through satchels and thus on to the leg of his pants, the odor of the dead was hard to scrub from one's clothing. He'd brought back 'souvenirs' for Syuveil in the past; he'd learned after the first unfortunate incident with a length of intestine that you had better be certain _nothing would drip through._

Fallen leaves crunched crisply underfoot, and he scowled at the sound, attempting to step around the many patches. They were difficult to make out in the darkness, but there wasn't a chance in hell he'd carry a lantern with him in such an open area. It was always, always best to remain hidden—not to mention keep from making noise carelessly.

If he couldn't learn to navigate the areas outside the city better, he might as well consider himself a dead man. So what if it was a bit extreme? All it took was one wrong step on a battlefield, and he'd be damned if the Winglies got him because he stepped in the wrong spot at the wrong time. _'Sooner or later, they _will_ come to this place.'_ Death by leaves—wouldn't that make for a fine eulogy at his funeral? The other Dragoons could be the ones to give it and it would all be very, very sad.

No, tomorrow night he'd come back here and walk the area, tomorrow night, and the night after that, then the night after that, until he could move around without making so much _noise. _

He flexed his right hand, feeling the worn padding that lined his gauntlet rub against the knuckles. It was funny how that nice little 'wound' in his palm always seemed to throb, as if it had its own heartbeat; it didn't remind him of a human heartbeat so much as it did the pulse of his dragon spirit when it was alive, and beautiful, and ready to call the storms for him. Reaching over, he brushed his thumb almost lovingly over the dormant sphere embedded in the arm guard. Cool to the touch and impossibly smooth, this was the only remnant of the dragon that had come so close to taking his life. _'How is Hell this time of year, Divine Thunder Dragon?'_

Well, sooner or later Kanzas would be there to find out for himself. He'd just have to try so very hard to deal with the anticipation. No, really—it was just unbearable. A sneer twisted his thin mouth, and he pulled his fingers through mussed, reddish hair.

Shirley, in that almost disturbing way of hers, had managed to avoid getting any sort of blood on her during the Winglies' little spy mission. Rather than join him for a quick clean-up at the pond, she'd gone to tell the guards stationed at the ramparts things had been taken care of. There wasn't any reason to, as they would've been able to see the one-sided battle from their vantage point. She just wanted to reassure them that everything was all right...

Not to mention she was more than eager to get back to her new husband. _'It doesn't matter.'_

The dark crystal pulsed suddenly and irritated, he slapped a hand over his gauntlet to hide the flash of it. _'I thought she was going back to the city.'_

However, the answering glow wasn't the brilliant silvery-white he'd expected to see. Rather, a soothing blue sparked off in the distance, bobbing briefly as its bearer moved along the shore of the pond.

A sharp crackle sounded and he glanced down at the pile of leaves he'd walked right in to. _'Fuck you too,'_ he thought at them—maybe at her as well.

There were scars on his arm now. They were dark, strange looking furrows that Shirley hadn't been able to completely smooth away with her healing magic. Whenever he touched his arm, he could feel the ridges of scar tissue even through his woolen sleeve.

/"Get back," he rasped out in an odd, strangled sort of voice. He pulled away the arm he reflexively used to catch her; tangling his fingers in the unkempt strands of her hair and using them try and yank her away. "Dragoon or no, I'll break your neck if you don't stop."

_How funny that he'd never noticed her eyes were the very color of _blood

_'She bit me,'_ he recalled, for what seemed to be the thousandth time. 'Please don't tell anyone,' she'd cried, and surprisingly enough, Kanzas hadn't breathed a word of it.

_/All he could think at that moment was '_predator_', the slight figure lurching forward even while trying to shove his arm away from her. Her tongue fell upon his hand, feeling like warm rain as it trailed over the blood-smeared skin./_

Now and again, he'd catch sight of a glint of moonlight on water, and as he drew closer to the smooth, glassy surface, he noticed something he'd been unaware of while flying with Keraunos mere minutes ago. The fat, heavy moon had a tint of orange to it—a red moon, some called it. They called it a 'harvest moon' here in Gloriano, but back East it was known as a 'blood moon.' Meant winter would be coming soon… Good thing Shirley had reminded him to bring his cloak before they'd left. Not that it would do him much good; once he started splashing about. It was muddy along the banks of the pond, and it almost seemed that being near the water made the chill more biting than it would have been otherwise.

Damia must be freezing her ass off right about now. The smirk that crossed his face faded abruptly, mud squishing and squelching as he quickened his pace at the sight of the shifting body sprawled out on the shore. It took his mind a moment or two to process that this was Damia, as the last thing he'd expected to see was the half-breed sprawled out on her stomach with, well, her _head in the pond._

It wasn't cold enough to bother her, the water, and she wriggled a bit further through the mud so as to slide deeper into the pond. The tiny gills on her neck opened and closed rhythmically as they took in water, then pushed it right back out again. Divine Tree, it was almost a relief to ease the dryness in her lungs. The air 'normal' people breathed day after day was arid and stale to her, even before a good rain or snowfall. Water was different—she didn't understand why, but she felt almost a craving to take it in. Each breath she drew from the water was fresh and cool and it made her feel _strong._

Kanzas knelt down next to her on the muddy banks, bracing his palms on his knees as he peered down at her half-submerged form. Did she think to drown herself? Too bad. She was a Dragoon and they needed her alive, for what good she'd actually done them these days. _'If you're going to play such a game, Kanzas, you'd better be ready to bring Syuveil into it, as well.'_ He couldn't quite stop the thought and he scowled, brushing away the feeling of guilt with a shake of his head.

There was something _wrong_ about what he was seeing. Kanzas had drowned a few men in his day and knew there should be more involuntary thrashing than this, especially considering how long she'd been under there. Then there was the fact that it was a bit hard to drown oneself _that_ way. _'Can't even commit suicide correctly.'_ Any minute now, she'd start jerking about and push herself back to the surface. He tapped his finger on his knee, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as the seconds passed. Five… ten… fifteen…

The first snowfall of the season would come soon, and with it would come the glittering ice that would freeze over her pond. Even she wouldn't be able to deal with the bitter chill that came with it. There would be no more swimming and moments like these. She sighed heavily and deliberately so that a flurry of bubbles would rush to the surface. It was too dark for her to see them, but she could feel them brushing over her forehead on their way upward, almost tickling.

Twenty-five. Thirty. Shifting his weight a bit, he began to tick off each handful of seconds with a click of his tongue. Nasty, noisy habit, that; he couldn't recall when he'd started doing it. Click. Click. Click.

Her small hammer was resting within an arm's reach, not far from a carelessly discarded lantern she'd brought with her. He reached out and grasped the weapon by its carved wooden handle, hefting it easily. Such a thing would be easy for him to wield in battle, but he'd noticed from time to time that it seemed to be rather tiring for her.

Thirty-five. Click. Seized by the sudden realization that her back was rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of someone who was _breathing_, he leaned in, flipping the hammer around and planting its head in the damp ground, leaning against it to keep from falling forward. _'It can't be.'_

Why not?

Another flurry of bubbles shot out from her nostrils as Damia began sputtering and snorting. _'I got mud up my nose!'_

For just a moment, the awkward girl might have been something beautiful, her mess of teal hair falling about her, clinging to her face and arms like seaweed as she pushed herself upward using both hands. Her lantern had been snuffed out already, and it almost appeared to him as if she were cloaked in the shadows, some strange, elusive creature--

Not yet noticing the man kneeling directly behind her, she reached up, pressing a finger against the opposite side of her nose so that her nostril flattened down. Then, she blew out a breath of air in an attempt to dislodge the little hunk of mud she'd mistakenly inhaled.

Too late she became aware of the other Dragoon's presence. The soggy dirt went flying, and its escape was shortly followed by a blank, "What in God's name are you doing?"

She let out a horrified squeak. _'Why do these things always happen to me?' _A dark flush crept up her neck and with it a rising tide of near panic. Really, she didn't know if she was more upset by the thought that he might have seen her blow soil from her nose, or that he must've been there when she was sucking up pondwater like a fish. "That wasn't funny," she snapped, twisting around and settling down on her backside. "What if I'd hur—" Her heart was pounding furiously, and she noticed that her hammer wasn't next to her, because he'd taken it…

The laughter that escaped his parted lips sounded low and raspy. "Hurt me?" he asked softly, leaning his weight harder on the carved wooden handle. "No, I really don't think you need to worry about that."

Damia had long since become used to Kanzas dismissing her. Up until six months ago, she'd never even touched a weapon and compared to the others, her skill was shoddy at best. Her magic was strong, but her body weak; more often than not, everyone else had to rally to protect her on the battlefield. So far, she'd only been allowed to help liberate the slave camps and stop raids on the nearby villages. "Not yet," she whispered back, before she could stop herself. He wasn't even three feet from her now—what if he decided to hit her for talking back to him that way? She didn't think he would, but the way he'd looked at her the night of the wedding celebration made her wonder.

The feast—now, her thoughts were heading in an entirely different direction, to a place she didn't want them to go. Damia had learned to tune out the soft whispers from others' blood, or to at least keep herself from being too drawn to those who were wounded. Some people were harder to ignore than others, though. Kanzas had always been the worst of them all, but she'd known from the beginning he would be. It almost seemed like his feelings thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin, hidden away and yet displayed so obviously all at the same time.

"Huh. Big words from a chit who doesn't even pay attention to her own dragon spirit."

She flinched as if struck, one hand nervously fluttering up to clutch the pale blue orb and its gilt chain. It was cool to the touch, the surface seeming to almost ripple as she held it. "I—" _'—shouldn't even be talking to him if he's going to act this way.'_

"— 'had my head up my ass,'" he finished for her. "Apparently."

He watched as she busied herself with the lantern, scrounging about in the soil and muttering so quietly that he could barely make out a word she said. Something about 'stupid' and 'going someplace else.' A quick flick of his wrist and his dagger slid free of its sheath, steel sliding along leather with a soft whispering noise.

"I—" _'—really don't want to hear this right now.' _It didn't take long to locate the chunk of discarded flint. She brushed the stone over her bodice a few times to remove any dampness from it. It was unnerving to sit around in the dark with Kanzas. Since she'd done that horrible thing—_'—tried to bite off part of his arm—'_, Damia had avoided him like the plague. They saw each other now and again around their towers, and while training, but that was all. No one treated her differently. Belzac always had a smile ready for her, Zieg still took time away from his work with the refugees to help with her weight training. Rose, Syuveil, Shirley; everything was the same. None of them knew what had happened; that was why nothing had changed.

"Oy."

Damia didn't take the proffered blade right away, staring at the extended arm with bemusement and just a little unease. 'Nothing had changed?' Perhaps it was wrong to say that. The problem was that she couldn't precisely put her finger on what was different.

She snatched the weapon away so quickly that he felt droplets of water from her sleeves splatter against his face. Flint rapped against steel, and sparks that had escaped the valuable glass casing of the lantern drifted along before fizzling out. There was some old story his aunt Gwena had liked to tell about Stardust, and he thought to himself that those sparks looked that glittering stuff. There was no reason to try and chase away the firelight; with Damia's observational skills, they'd be as good as dead whether or not the flame gave them away to Whatever-Enemy.

Her hair was a thick tangle; looking as if it hadn't seen a comb in days, while mud was smeared over a fine, pretty blue dress. _'Elusive?'_ The light had chased away the mystery that had been cloaking her, leaving in its place a thin, awkward girl who rather resembled a drowned rat. _'Right. I think that's a stick in her hair.'_

Within the lantern, one last spark was born, its life snuffed out immediately after.

Stardust—

_/"Let's make a wish together!"/_

Shaking his head to clear it of the memory, Kanzas reached out to retrieve his weapon from her, closing fingers about a small wrist almost without realizing it. He rubbed his thumb over the slightly clammy skin, noting her slightly pointed fingernails and the sharp intake of breath. "File these down, do you?" the man asked in a conversational tone.

Flicking his gaze upward, he tried to see through the tangle of teal curls; would he find gills on her neck?

Her instinctive reaction was to shrink back; the nervous beating of her heart so loud she was sure Kanzas must hear it. _'He's touching me. He's touching me. He's touching me—' _The words running through her mind were juvenile, and she hated that. "Your knife," she managed to squeak out.

"Dagger."

"Take it!"

When he pressed down carefully on one of those fingernails, he felt the pad of his middle finger start to split open. At first glance, they looked square. If one were to look closer, however, they'd notice the nails were _too_ flat near the top, filed into almost a straight line. It was the edges that gave the secret away, the sharp little corners they formed in spite of the care Damia had taken to hide the way they would naturally grow. "Ow," he stated flatly, out of sarcasm more than anything else.

Damia's reply came tumbling out in a nervous rush. She didn't think she could have kept silent no matter how hard she tried, feeling as terribly off-balance as she always did when he bothered to speak to her. He was just waiting to tell, of course he was just waiting to tell someone-- "I don't— only a little, they're really not—"

Just as suddenly as Damia had taken his dagger from him, he ripped it from her grasp, placing still more of his weight upon the hammer he was resting on as he leaned forward and pressed the keen tip of the blade against that little hollow at the base of her throat.

"I went to the south when I was a boy," Kanzas began, "and out there, they caught the fish right out of the water with their bare hands."

_'He wouldn't._' "Stop it," she whispered, and she was unable to keep herself from shaking as the cold metal traced over the side of her neck, lifting a length of hair away to expose one of the tiny gills just beneath her ear.

The assassin continued, a distant part of him warning that Belzac wouldn't like this at all. _'Too bad for him, too.'_ "What they do is wait and wait, and don't you know they're so very quiet? Then, just when the fish thinks its safe--" Here, he tapped the flat of the dagger against the little slit in her neck, watching her squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss, "—they stick their fingers underneath the gills and haul them out. Don't you think that would hurt, Damia?"

When she opened her eyes once more, he thought he might've seen a tempest rise within them, a slowly growing storm to churn the waters. Then, _Damia_ was the one lunging at _him_, the keen edge of his weapon slicing along her neck as she grabbed hold of the handle he was using to support himself.

"What the f—"

It wasn't often something like this happened to Kanzas—stuttering girl-women gnawing chunks from his body and then trying to knock him flat on his face. Now, making oneself look like an ass was all well and good; it was a practice he indulged in frequently. It was another matter entirely when _Damia_ was the cause. He jerked the dagger to one side as it nicked the skin, an instinctive reaction to prevent any more damage. That was the thing about the neck, it was so easy to nick at some important thing, and then the blood would pour out, out, out—

His grip on the hammer had become lax during their 'conversation', and his balance more and more precarious. In the end, the Thunder Dragoon found himself wallowing in the mud because he was admittedly 'too damned cocky for his own good.'

Hugging her hammer to her almost protectively, the heaviness of it strangely comforting, she glared. "Stop it," she said again, her tone indicating that she was very horrified about this situation—but was seriously considering giving him a solid smack upside the head anyway.

The wet soil was surprisingly cold, squishing and smearing over the dried red that marred his bony hands. He rose, pulling one of those dirty palms down his face and leaving dark smudges in its wake. _'Still working on that backbone.'_ Teeth gnashing angrily, a rasping sort of growl scraping its way free of his throat, Kanzas glared right back.

_'Oh, I guess I shouldn't have done that,'_ she thought distantly, edging away from him. The growl inexplicably became a low snicker. For the life of her, she couldn't understand what was so funny about the situation. "It's not—"

"No," he rasped out, "it is!" He wanted to gut her like a fish, watch her wriggle and squirm as his fingers gripped her insides. The battle was still hot in his veins, though the storms had decided to sleep for a time. It was so easy for that amusement to become hysteria, to just keep on laughing once he'd started. Ugly, unpleasant laughter that even he didn't like to hear; but who was he to _care_ how he sounded?

Yet again, Damia was the first to back down. "It's not funny!" she repeated, hating herself for running away all over again, but knowing that she should be anywhere but here at the moment. He'd ruined the peace and quiet, and the only way to settle herself was to go far away from _him._ She jumped to her feet and hurried away, taking the smell of rain with her, along with the silence that had otherwise pervaded the area.

Crickets began to chirp and frogs not yet in hibernation hesitantly began to croak. He almost reached out to grip a length of that fluttering, stained skirt as it brushed along his face, turning his head to flash a vicious grin. _"Don't you have a sense of humor?"_

She ran more than she actually walked away from the confrontation that was beginning to form between them. Once she was far enough away that she didn't think he'd be paying attention, she gave in to the aching in her forearms. The stone head of the hammer struck the ground with a dull thud, scraping away bits of dirt as she began to drag the weapon along behind her. Then, she seemed to fold in on herself, slouching forward in a sort of embarrassed huddle as she slowed. _'I thought maybe I'd stand up to him this time. I really thought that I could do it.'_

A prickle ran down her spine, a gentle, tingling current that felt like the air _tasted_ after a thunderstorm. She faltered, her back going ramrod straight as she looked over her shoulder at the distant figure kneeling by the pond.

He was still watching.

"Here. You can have this."

Syuveil stared at the misshapen, dripping thing Kanzas had so unceremoniously taken from the bag and dropped into his hand. "That's disgusting, but thank you."

"Any time."

Syuveil's room was by no means a pleasant place to be, which was quite likely why Kanzas felt so at home there. It smelled of harsh chemicals that made one's throat ache and set their eyes to watering; while the few tables crammed inside were immaculately clean, a fine layer of dust blanketed the floor. He wiped his nose using his gauntlet, hoping to stave off a sneeze. No one needed to know that Kanzas, _the goddamned Thunder Dragoon,_ suffered from _hay fever. _In spite of annoying things like sneezing and spraying mucus about, he liked Syuveil's tower. There was another stench within the dark room that overpowered all the other odors, and even he felt his stomach roil reflexively at the sickly-sweet smell of death. An overly poetic soldier had told him once that rotting flesh reminded him of dying roses. Rose herself might appreciate that.

_'Or not.'_

Syuveil placed the liver carefully on a thin, breakable plate of some sort—it had raised edges; Kanzas liked to call it a 'bowl' just to see the scholar have a snit.

"And the Winglies?" the brown-haired man asked, though he didn't need to.

Kanzas smiled—it wasn't a nice smile by any stretch of the imagination. "Don't play the fool."

His attention briefly drifted away from the shadowy bulk that caused the smell, to a frog bobbing in a jar of Soa-knew-what and he reached out to tap it, his finger plinking against the glass. More _glass._ What was it that made such a _worthless_ thing so important to those around him? The 'scientist'—or so he called himself—coveted the stuff. To Kanzas, glass was just something that was rather nice to look at and even nicer to break.

Locating a chair amidst the clutter, the Jade Dragoon sat, sliding his precious microscope over the table. It had been stolen from the Winglies, of course, back when his old master in Aglis had sold him. The young 'research assistant' had smuggled it away in his knapsack "You know you've always been better at 'playing' games, so spare me the sarcasm."

"Fine, then."

Syuveil pressed his tongue thoughtfully against the tip of a canine tooth, twisting the focus of the lens carefully. "It might've been easier for them to just fall on their own swords." Two Winglies against the city of Vellweb? It was madness.

"Catch on quick."

Making a face as a slight breeze drifted in through the window, bringing a bit of relief from the smell, Kanzas drifted toward the other end of the room, examining the enormous skull mounted on the wall. It seemed to leer at him with that gaping mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. Bemused, he reached out to stroke the smooth surface. "Evening, Iaspis," he greeted in a soft hiss.

Of course, the head of the Jade Sky Dragon didn't respond.

He hadn't been particularly fond of the dragon, but Syuveil's bond with his vassal had bordered on eerie. He'd told Kanzas that sometimes Iaspis would whisper into his mind, his mental voice as clear and strong as that of the Divine Dragons themselves.

Ignoring Kanzas' apparent interest in the dragon skull, Syuveil reached to one side, feeling out blindly for the razor-sharp scalpel he left on the table earlier. "I wonder sometimes."

Kanzas shot him a quick, questioning look while wiping his palms on his pants. His skin smelled of liver and dying roses—like the tower. Small particles of dust drifted along the air, kicked up by his unhurried steps and illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. "About?"

_/The fall of Flanvel Tower had been their first real victory, but it hadn't come without price. Though the tower had been knocked from the sky, Iaspis lay dead, the prone form of the Lady General Ayeka Veron lay sprawled out almost symbolically beside the massive bulk. Her fingers still clutched that thing called the 'Dragon Block Staff', the weapon she'd used to fend off the Dragoons until her dying breath. _

The light of the sun was so harsh as to make their heads ache, and as Syuveil pulled his foot back, driving it into the corpse, it caused his leg armor to glint. Glint-kick-flop, Kanzas thought morbidly, rubbing at his shoulder. Glint-kick-flop.

_"Syuveil! It's enough! It's enough, she's already dead!"/ _

To his dismay, he suddenly sneezed. Mucus spattered the skull in a less than respectful manner. Well, that was just splendid, wasn't it? At least Syuveil didn't seem to have noticed. He was too busy looking put-off by Kanzas' lack of attention.

"Have you heard a word I've said?"

"Not a thing. I imagine it was quite fascinating." Belzac and Zieg had bound the corpse of the dragon to that of their own, and together Ge and Cenneth had brought Iaspis back to Vellweb—and the tender mercies of Syuveil's laboratory.

It had been a month since the fall of Flanvel Tower, and the scholar was still deep in his dissection of the dragon's remains. Kanzas didn't know why he did it, and he didn't really care to ask. Well, maybe there was one thing he wanted to know… _'I wonder why he isn't rotting faster than this?' _The table he was now lingering by was covered with sections of green scales, slabs of meat and skin, and he poked at them.

The quick flare of his own temper surprised Syuveil. He straightened, narrowing his eyes and spitting out hoarsely, "Don't touch that!"

"No need to—" As Kanzas turned, his elbow connected with a small wooden box resting near the edge of the table. The unintentional smack knocked the container from it, and its contents spilled out over the floor.

From anger to horror all within a hand span of seconds.

"Huh," the redhead stated. At first glance it seemed that the box had held nothing more than dozens of little rocks. He nudged one with his boot and watched it roll over dusty stone. "You ever think" he asked, kneeling down with Syuveil to help collect the pebbles, "that it's a bit _odd_ to get so touchy over a dragon you're cutting apart?"

_'I've always tried not to judge _you_, Kanzas,'_ the other thought weakly, tracing the pitted, grainy texture of the rock he was holding. He placed it back in the little chest almost reverently. "But you like that." He was fighting the rising urge to panic, along with the harsh cough that threatened to grip his chest. It was getting worse, his illness, his—his _weakness._ No, he couldn't afford to lose one of these pieces, nor could he fail in his search for the remaining ones. It had to be all of them; if there was any truth to the story, then he couldn't miss a single piece--

"Point taken. Now—you're so bored that you've taken up rock-collecting?"

Apparently, if Kanzas couldn't harp on one thing, he would another. Syuveil frowned. "Just—" There was a brief pause as he sucked in a struggling, weak breath, the sort that carried a cough or a sneeze with it, "help—with—"

Syuveil refused to meet his gaze, but that didn't really matter, for soon he was doubled over as the cough scraped free. It hurt, ached, felt as if claws were ripping at his lungs. He pressed his palm against the floor, using it to support himself until the near convulsion caused by the fit of coughing had passed. His temples throbbed and his head swam, spots dancing before his vision. Unfortunately, he had to admit he was used to the feeling by now. _'I am so tired of this.'_ Why did the Divine Wind Dragon even choose him if his health would begin to fail so early into the war? It all seemed terribly unfair to him.

The black-clad man reached out and carefully wiped away the splotch of blood from the floor, leaving a dark smear there that oddly enough, managed to look innocuous and inoffensive. 'Oh, no, it seems I must have spilled something there,' Syuveil would be able to say, and they would believe him. Kanzas, after all, had a way with blood.

There was silence as Syuveil pushed up the spectacles sliding down his nose, quiet interrupted only by the occasional plink of a stone being dropped into the box. He began to scrounge around himself, if only so he wouldn't have to look at Kanzas while he spoke. "What do you know of the Divine Tree?"

"There you go playing the fool again."

He sighed and shook his head tolerantly, despite the waves of dizziness caused by the motion. Perhaps he shouldn't say anything at all. Kanzas of all people was the most accepting of his eccentricities—Iaspis, especially. But in spite of his attitude, he had the least belief in things he couldn't see. Yes, his friend would feel the magical properties in what outwardly appeared to be common 'pebbles.' He would accept that there was something different about the objects they were now scrabbling to retrieve—he wouldn't, however, immediately accept what Syuveil was telling him. "My master's wife—back in Aglis… she was very fond of stories."

Kanzas sneered in disdain at the title. Diaz' puppet he may be, but never again would 'master' pass his lips. "We all _know_ of the damned tree the Mother of All spit out, Fate, destiny. Really, I'm concerned that a pair of gods decided to pull us all out of pieces of fruit."

The wheezing that sounded whenever the thin man inhaled grew louder as he sucked in a deep breath, as if to steady himself. Anyway, _he_ didn't see anything wrong with being born from the fruit of the Divine Tree. "She told me once that, _'It's said the fruit fallen from the Divine Tree before it's proper time goes against fate. As punishment for trying to defy its fate and choose its own time of birth, that which was meant to live will never be born at all.'_ I'm paraphrasing, of course."

Reassured that Syuveil's 'magical rock collection' was now safe in the chest; Kanzas slapped the lid closed and stifled his own need to sneeze. His reply came out rather garbled because of it, but he didn't feel like waiting until he was done to actually talk. "Wingly talk. I don't care to believe in Fate, fruit, or 'Mother and Father.'

Soa, the Father of All, Creator—he had many names, but his wife and consort Miranda held only the title of 'Mother of All. It was she who had birthed the holy seed that would grow into the Divine Tree; Soa himself had planted the seed in barren earth, thus bringing the first living being to the world.

"Caron was her name—er, the mistress."

_'I don't care what her name was. She's a fucking Wingly and that's all I need to know.'_ "You're rambling again."

He received a glare for that. The scholar reached out and took the box from him, brushing at the top of it even though the wood had been polished to a subtle sheen. If something in his tower was kept free of dust, then that meant it was important. "Consider a habit I picked up from you."

"More likely from Damia." It was one of those things you said without thinking, and Kanzas could only blink as the realization of what he'd just said sank in. _'Oh, isn't that interesting?'_ he thought blandly, though his expression practically dared the other to comment on it. _'I—'_

A sandy eyebrow quirked inquisitively- Syuveil might have been disturbed to realize at that moment, his thoughts were an echo of his friend's. _'Oh, isn't that interesting?'_ "I beg your pardon?"

_'—think I—'_ "Divine Tree. Caron."

"The Mother weeps for those children lost to the world—" Now was the difficult part. It was strange, but he didn't think he could bear Kanzas' mockery. Not about this. Perhaps it was because he was enough like him_—'don't believe in what you can't see, what you can't sense.' _"If the fruit is returned to the Divine Tree—"

_/"And then She'll grant you a wish, Syuveil. Wouldn't it be wonderful if that were true?"/_

_/"Let's make a wish together!"/_

The pebbles had seemed to cling oddly to Kanzas' his fingertips, while the rough, grainy texture had hummed with the faint remnants of energy that had yet to die out. "What _have_ you been up to?" he breathed, having a sudden urge to pitch the box and its precious contents out the window. "You unbelievable—_idiot! You don't fuck with things like this!_"

The Wind Dragoon drew back, startled by the unexpected reaction. "I thought you didn't believe in the Divine Tree," was his quiet reply.

He pressed his knuckles hard against his knee, so hard that Kanzas felt shards of pain shoot up his thigh, clear to his hip. "I don't!" Unable to understand his own, sudden fury, and not really wanting to, he pressed on. "What is it you planned to wish for? If the eye of the Divine Healing Dragon won't save your life, what makes you think--"  
The fist that flew at his face was almost a blur, and it was only by reflex that he managed to deflect the punch as the scholar lunged at him, a harsh curse on his lips. Kanzas' forearm connected with the other man's and he pushed it to one side, lunging forward and slamming his head against Syuveil's own with a solid _crack. _He blinked dizzily a few times, staring the red splotch on the floor as the sickly man fell back, gasping. "That hurt, you bastard."

"I _know._ You bastard."

"Bastard. At least I'm not messing about with the Divine Tree." _'Waste of time, but I hope it works.'_ And as much as he hated to admit that to himself, he meant it. There were more splotches appearing on Syuveil's floor with every day that passed.

/She was alone beneath the storm-dark sky, alone but for the limp body of her prey sprawled out beneath her. She wore seaglass and finger bones knotted in her wild hair, and sand rasped at her pale, naked body as she leaned forward, languidly sinking a mouthful of sharp teeth into the belly of the dead man.

Shreds of raw flesh slid wetly down her throat and she laughed softly to herself, drunk on the taste of dying hopes and dreams, and the terror he'd felt as she'd ripped open his throat with her nails. The ebb and flow of the tide was in perfect time with the beat of her own heart, the water rushing over the two entwined bodies, carrying sand and blood out to sea with each lapping wave.

Thunder rumbled in her ears, and as the slippery human innards threatened to slide through her fingers, she looked up and laughed again. The sky was singing to her, her belly was full and though she'd been gone but a short time, the eerie, siren call rising from the rushing seawater was beckoning her home./

Damia's eyes flew open as a shudder wracked her entire body. It wasn't the sound of the sea in her ears now, but her own excited, horrified breathing, and the soft flow of the water cycling down from the posts of her bed to the floor. She rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest, mumbling a quiet prayer to herself. It was so dark and empty here in this room. For as long as she could remember, she'd hated the darkness. Not the dimness that cast a pall over everything in the wee hours of the morning, or the late evenings when nighttime had yet to begin. After midnight, real dark-- _true dark_, when she was left alone in her tower with only her dreams-- _'Nightmares—'_ to keep her company.

Sometimes, she would go visit Shirley, Rose or even Belzac late at night, only so she could 'accidentally' fall asleep in their rooms. If any of them ever figured it out, she knew the humiliation would be the end of her. _'I couldn't stand it.'_

The half-breed shifted a little, pulling her pillow from beneath her head so that she could hug it tightly, wedging it between knee and chest. Her sleep had been untroubled these past months, despite the sudden, jarring change in her life after the Divine Water Dragon had sacrificed herself to Damia. Weak little Damia, 'demonspawn', forbidden-child--

Sometimes, she was on a beach, and the sands were warm, sun pounding down hot on her head. Others, she swam through the cold, frigid waters of the seas to the north, where her mother's people had come from. There was often killing, nameless, faceless people who meant little to her because they really didn't exist. The only thing her dreams had in common was that she was always happy in them. She was dangerous and powerful and she wore seaglass and bones in her hair…

Not even Kanzas wore bones around. Would he give her more respect if she did or just laugh at her and tell her _she_ had no right to be wearing such things? _'It doesn't matter.'_

_ "Then, just when the fish thinks it's safe, they stick their fingers underneath the gills and haul them out. Don't you think that would hurt, Damia?"/_

_'I _think_ that I'm tired of thinking.' _Uneasily, the girl began to tug at the sheets that had gotten tangled about her as she slept. They were gossamer thin creations of silk; she did surprisingly well in the cold and for some odd reason the waters in her tower never seemed to take on the chill of the pond, or the wells that provided a more convenient source of water for the city. So, she didn't really need the heavy furs or layers of clothing that the others were forced to wrap themselves in, but sometimes she thought about putting more blankets on the bed. It would look more normal that way.

Slipping back beneath the covers, she rolled to her opposite side, tucking the pillow back under her head. Through the open window she could see cloudless, ink-dark sky. It looked calm out there, but there would be a storm soon. Garnet-colored eyes-- _'like a Wingly's'_—regarded the marble dome of Kanzas' tower. She could barely make out the deep purple color even with the aid of the torches flickering in brackets outside. It would happen in a week, Damia figured, maybe a few days earlier than that.

At least the storm was something to look forward to.

Yes, it's been a while, heh. If anyone remembers this fic at all, then I'll be damned.

I'm obviously differing a bit from what we know about Soa and the Divine Tree. It was mentioned in game that Miranda was named after a minor goddess of her country, so I decided to tinker with the Soa/Creation story. 11,000 years passed after the Dragon Campaign, so it's safe to say the religion did change quite a bit. That and I'm sure mortal-Miranda would be twitchy if she knew just how significant her name was. Mwah.

This is more of a 'what happened behind the scenes' type of story, though there will definitely be wartime happenings, provided I get off my backside and write faster than this… Sorry, Fifi!

Oh! I removed all mention of Kanzas being called the Black Monster before Rose, as I decided that, er, there wasn't any reason for it. La!


	4. Part Three: Pick Your Prey

"Saltwater and Blood"

By The Sharra

Part Three: Pick Your Prey

"Bless me, undress me

Pick your prey in a wicked way

God, I must confess…

I do envy the sinners…"

-- Nightwish, "She Is My Sin"

Paint smeared the tips of blunt, bony fingers, cooling the little figure of rust-tinged clay so recently baked in the heat of his hearth. A dab of red here, a bit of black there, red, black, blue, red, black, gold, blue—

He never put much effort into the dolls, nor did he want to. The poorly fired clay would crumble in a few years' time and he would grind it to dust beneath his heel before working it back into the slickness of earth and blood. It was a cycle, one stolen life merging with another, again and again until he no longer remembered who first graced the crowded shelves.

"_Freedom to sever the Chains of Fate that bind me…"_ It was spoken as little more than a breath, a soft, gentle rasp in the dusty warmth of the room that scraped over the silence before cutting it with a knife's edge.

Attempting to smooth oddly congealed red paint, he gazed down at the horrid, chunky mess of colors without really seeing them. The paints had to be made and mixed often, each time the hound's hunt was done, and it was his blood that completed the deadly, one-sided circle. '_Hello, nice to meet you, die, die, die, see you in Hell, forgive me this trespass, though I do know the sin that I—'_

Blood seeped sluggishly from a hand that was almost always gloved or gauntleted, drip-drip-dripping from the puckered purple scar, the burden that he had taken of his own will and that fed his hate—

He squeezed the lips of the wound, callused hand hovering above the little jar of stuff that was meant to be blue but in the end, became a sickly color that reminded him of rotting fruit. _"To walk from the Gates of Darkness and Damnation…"_

Secretly, he had always loved paints and clay, the strange, tangy perfume of still-drying ink. To him, holding the thin handle of a brush between two fingers was as guilty a pleasure as the warmth of blood on his skin. In spite of that, he didn't much care for this part of it, not the dolls and their blank, dead eyes. Splotches of color, or little furrows gouged into faces with the violent twist of a knife, they always had to _stare_, and he'd be fucked if he'd allow them the satisfaction of knowing that it aggravated him.

He traced 'blue' around the brown eyes of this newest sin, barely aware that the doll was starting to shape itself to someone else. _'Father and Mother of All—'_

Sometimes, he felt nothing as he sent them to Hell and left only hollow dolls in their place. Sometimes, he wanted to laugh and laugh at the sheer, thrilling exhilaration of making another hurt, because the feeling that somehow allowed a brief bit of light to take shine in the black, tangled mess of his soul before that gentle candle flame was snuffed out. Only the damnation was left for him once the darkness returned.

'—_tonight I—'_

The thought was cut short and eyes smudged with dark circles underneath widened slightly, cracked, red-stained lips twisting in a strange combination of grim amusement and displeasure. '—_I'll… have to do something about this.'_

"_Goddamn."_ Crude, masculine features pressed by careless fingers adorned the face of the doll, easily forgettable once shelved. Or at least, it should have been, was _supposed_ to look that way. He sneered down at the berry-colored 'mask' that ornamented the eyes and ears, a half-finished, unattractive bit of detail that he considered wiping away. The figure was tossed forward, clay cracked and splitting apart as it hit the surface of the desk. He hunched forward, pressing his knuckles thoughtfully against his forehead as he let out a thin chuckle. The paint had felt cool on his fingertips mere moments ago, but as he tilted back his head to pull his palm down his face, the swathes of berry he used to anoint his forehead felt hot, like fire. 'So_ be it.'_

"_Gods, Mayfil and Divine Tree have mercy on my unworthy Human soul."

* * *

"Milady, please! You'll end up falling out again if you lean out any further!" _

Charle Frahma, in spite of her flustered aide's words, merely draped herself farther out the window of the airborne vehicle, the thin oxygen and the wildness of the wind snatching both her breath and what would have been a merry, lighthearted laugh. _'But you've just got to try this, Benz,'_ she thought to the Wingly woman sitting beside her. _'What good are wings if you're afraid to take to the sky, dearie?'_

It was so cold out that her nose and cheeks ached painfully, and when she reached up to touch disheveled strands of white hair, they felt chill to the touch. To the noble's credit, she made a token attempt to pat her bun back into some semblance of neatness before the lure of the open ship's window became too much for her to bear. She lunged forward again, but not before sucking in a deep gulp of air to sustain herself. Reddish eyes reflexively began to water, the tears causing them to burn, but lessening some of the irritation caused by the speed with which they traveled. The salt-sting sensation of tears was strange to her and she couldn't help but reach up to pat the damp corners of her lids. Charle sometimes thought herself incapable of crying. Childhood amongst the nobility was less than ideal, the backstabbing and manipulation, brother pitted against brother, daughter against father, often robbed young Winglies of their naivety all too soon. The elder sister of the Divine Lord Frahma was no exception—if anything, she was a perfect example of this truth.

The raw-boned woman beside her sighed, propriety keeping her from reaching out to grasp her mistress' arm and tugging her back inside their 'doomship', as the Lady Charle had seen fit to call it. _'She spent so much time powdering her nose and fixing her hair this morning, and now—'_ Oh, why couldn't it ever _last? _The noblewoman was always out and about doing something. If it wasn't gardening, or 'mingling at the bar' at night, it was secret meetings and whispered conversations behind closed doors.

It was hard to believe that the outwardly ditzy, slightly mad lady had been at the height of Wingly power less than ten years ago. _' Once you climb to the top of your mountain,'_ the noblewoman thought nostalgically, _'all you can do is go back down from there.'_

Within a year of the battle against the God of Destruction, the same battle that had warped her brother's body and shattered her sanity, Charle had been sent into exile in her tiny outpost city of Ulara. The fact that she'd used her waning influence to construct wards, _spheres_ in each city to limit his power certainly hadn't endeared her to him and so his decision to exile her had come as no surprise.

It hadn't been so long ago that she'd been the head of the High Council and even her brother had bowed his head in deference to her. False, grudging respect, but she'd never expected anything different.

So long as Melbu held the sphere of the God in his hand, she was unable to stand against him and subject to his whims. _'Or so he thinks. Silly, silly little boy.' _After the signet spheres were created, she'd gone willingly to her gilded prison.

Charle hadn't been content to remain in Ulara with her 'gaggle of Human-lovers', as her brother had called them. _'Dear boy never was one for creativity. Never anything like that.'_ No, what Melbu Frahma preferred—expected, really—was quick, brutal efficiency. After her exile, she'd bided her time, raised her young Human 'son' up to a fine, upstanding young man.

There had been things to occupy her— fortifying Ulara against attack, dealings with Dragons and the growing Human city of Vellweb; and, as always, there had been Diaz. Second born son of a minor Human merchant, and by Soa, he'd had such dreams. _'And beautiful eyes,'_ she thought with a nostalgic sort of sadness.

Was there really any need to sit around and remember such things? She was only going to ruin this wonderful mood she was in-- there wasn't much point in that. As she leaned back against the hard, uncomfortable seating, she tapped a button. The window snapped shut, blocking out the cold, gray-cast sky. _'I have to wonder why it always rains when I come here.'_

Pale, soft hands flexed, a slight flash of burning pain causing her to glance down to them. Two purple, puckered scars marred the skin there, the color seeming to hint at deep infection and slow healing. However, these were old wounds, of little danger to her life but greatly limiting her own power. _'As they say, 'nothing without price.'_

_The room had an unpleasant, acrid odor, of rotting meat and burned hair. The soft flickering of firelight off walls of mottled stone did little to hide the strain on both men's haggard faces as she released their hands, leaving a smear of dark blood on callused palms. _

_Charle watched as the emperor and Dragon knight both sank to the floor, shaking and sick from the magic that now bound them together._

_Two ends of a scale, each to balance out the other-- the king and the killer. One to watch, and wait, and oh, to act if need be. _

"_Wingly," a gentle whisper as the lean figure rose from his awkward kneel, somehow seeming to tower over the form of the emperor still struggling to regain his feet._

_Desperation, regret, acceptance. The calm before the storm.  
_

_"You should pray for us."_

Pressing her fist against her heart, she sighed and gave in to the inevitable; things didn't seem as pleasant as they had a few minutes ago.

As she reached over to pat the high-strung Benz reassuringly on the shoulder, murmuring that she'd be 'just fine', a sudden grunt from Sina caught her attention. He was a quiet man, disinclined to say much of anything if he could help it. The lighting in the ship's interior was dim, but she could still make out the sudden furrow creasing his forehead and twisting shaggy white brows. Fingers seemed to fly over switches and buttons, face illuminated by the energy that pulsed through The Doomship.

Willingas ever to offer an unwanted opinion, she informed him, "Your brows are twitching."

Sina's hands hovered over the machinery for a moment as he cursed under his breath. _'Buggered if this isn't what we don't need.' _There was a funny sort of finality in his voice when he spoke, each word punctuated by the soft, beeping signal of the transmitter. "Incoming transmission from Capital City Kadessa, Lady Charle."

"Permission to accept the message, dearie." Suddenly, Charle found the state of her hair very worrisome indeed. _'Dress to kill.'_ She reached up, pulling several pins from her hair in a last minute attempt to fix the mess the neat little bun of hair had become. It spilled down her shoulders, windblown and slightly mussed—but it would have to do. Strangely, being well dressed and well groomed was much like having a suit of armor to protect oneself…

Benz had already begun to tense beside her and the Lady of Ulara reached out, gently placing her hand on the armored shoulder. "Settle, now! Settle!"

Ice pooled in her belly. Sina's quiet hiss of dismay went mostly ignored as the screen flickered to life, leaving her gazing at the brother she hadn't seen in years. _'I had almost forgotten those eyes of yours.'_

Melbu smiled gently and she felt her own lips curving in automatic response. Wingly society was a world of masks, and in this realm now ruled by Frahma, you smiled when he smiled and laughed when he laughed. From the very beginning, he'd demanded nothing less than perfection from his people. _'The blood of so many children is on your hands—'_

Charle Frahma hadn't lived as long as she had without being a clever woman who trusted her own instincts. She was also very good at smiling. _'So, you've realized. Baby-baby brother, sweetling, pet.'_ The two of them had played games together long ago. She had called him pet names and shared sweets with him…

Even as a child, he'd been deep-voiced, but these days his voice carried a sort of ominous resonance, as if he were speaking into a sound amplification device like the ones they used in Kadessa's arena. "The weather in your part of the world is dreadful, isn't it, sister?"

She _chirped_ her reply, going so far as to lean forward and 'hug' the transmission screen. It had the unfortunate effect of giving him a decent view of her squashed bosom. "Bright and clear in Ulara. Oh, it's so good to hear from you! Why don't you call more, baby brother?" _'Ah, I know why. Because you want me dead, don't you? The tangled webs we weave.'_

It was clear enough that her gesture wasn't appreciated. Only the Divine Lord Frahma was able to make his _silence_ seem so disgusted and above it all. "My patience grows thin. "I've been kind to you up till now, but there is a limit as to what I will allow."

Benz shifted uneasily, keeping her hands buried in her skirts in an attempt to hide the way they shook. The attendant felt Charle's own hand fall, resting heavy and warm on her shoulder. She winced as her lady's nails bit into her skin, gripping and wrinkling the heavy, fine cloth of her traveling dress. _'How is it you can smile at him the way you do?'_ The image on the monitor seemed as impassive as Charle did cheerful. As fingernails dug ever deeper, Benz grit her teeth and forced herself not to avert her face from the screen. Her heart was hammering so swiftly, she thought she might be sick.

"Have you lost weight? You look good. A bit gray, but good."

The Divine Lord continued on as if he hadn't heard her, though the brief, strangle crackle of energy that haloed his form was a testament to his irritation. "Ulara is hereby ordered to surrender the Human settlement of Vellweb, the seven Dragon Knights—"

"Would you like the signet spheres with that?"

"—and their beasts. Comply—"

Benz might have found the conversation horribly amusing if not for what it all meant. He _knew_ the lady was backing the Humans. Somehow, after seven years, he knew _all_ of it. Her heart raced frantically, guilt stabbing at the first, panicked thoughts that came to mind were, _'What's going to happen to Ulara now? Because he knows and no one was careful enough and where will I live if--'_

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Melbu." Charle was vaguely aware of nausea rolling in her belly, barely worth noticing amidst the nervous, manic rush of adrenaline that came dangerously close to bordering on giddiness. Outwardly, she knew she was the very _image_ of a happy, happy woman. Inwardly, she knew she was completely, utterly full of it.

"This takes kindness to animals too far. See reason." His voice thinned out into a serpent's hiss.

It was difficult not to bristle at that, but she brushed the insult toward Humankind away, feeling her lips tighten to a thin, whitened line. This wasn't quite a formal declaration of war, but it was close. Melbu was arrogant, more so now than ever before. She'd be surprised if he actually viewed Vellweb and its Dragon Knights as a threat. _'Never mind that Flanvel was destroyed by them. Oh, no.'_

This conversation was just-- _'Nothing more than intimidation. Well, it's not going to work, you little brat!'_

"One would hate to see the wrath of the gods turn on Ulara and it's leader."

Ah, there it was—the ultimatum. If he honestly expected her to _surrender_ the city to him, he had another thing coming. Were the Humans going to _gift_ a Wingly with the proverbial keys to the city gates? "The gods have little say in anything anymore." _'You and I plucked them from the sky together.'_

"No. There is only my will now."

"And is it your will to see your sister—" Cutting herself short suddenly, she lurched forward and released her death's grip on Benz as fingers clenched to fists. Sina's bulk was jolted to one side and he was forced to grip the sides of his chair to avoid being knocked over.

A weary sigh escaped her. As she stared at the gray-skinned dictator that was her brother, she made her eyes go wide and teary. "So be i—" Another sudden, split-second of silence before—"--oh, by the Father, you're breaking up!" A tinny _clang_ filled the cramped interior of the ship as she slammed a small hand onto the ridged surface of the console. _Clang._ _Clang._ _Clang._ The delicate connection flickered and wavered at the surprisingly jarring blows, distorting his face. "We're—flying—can't—" It was like studying his reflection on the surface of a pond, ripples spreading outward. When they were children, they'd passed time by the fountains together, and she recalled him constantly staring at his own reflection while she splashed about, always shattering the mirror image of him. "—losing—"

Melbu made no reply, or if he did, the sound was so garbled that the crackling buzz of the static kept her from hearing. Frankly, she didn't give a damn what he had to tell her.

The light on the screen died as Charle cut off the connection, shaking slightly and scowling to herself.

Twitching a couple of times, Sina poked a gnarled finger against the control panel. Benz privately wondered if he might have a heart attack, a silly snippet of thought flashing through her mind. _'She pushed his buttons.'_ _Charle Frahma had pushed Sina's buttons._ Why did that strike her as the funniest thing in the world all of a sudden? She pressed her knuckles against her lips to hold back a snort of laughter, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

"Well," Charle breathed softly, flopping back down into her seat as her knees threatened to give way from underneath her. "It's about time the poor dears caught his attention, isn't it? Raise the flags, sound the trumpets and march the soldiers onward. That, as they say—is that."

* * *

For as long as she could remember, Damia had been a morning person. It wasn't that she liked the early hours so much she had to get up before everyone else back home. Her father was wealthy by Human standards, a freeman who had wheeled and dealed with the Wingly race and somehow managed to _survive_ doing so. Still, being a child of the clan-leader hadn't made her exempt from work. If she wanted any free time to herself, she just had to be awake before the rest of them. 

By now, it had become a habit she couldn't seem to shake, so every morning she'd grudgingly get up before sunrise, allowing herself to disappear into the array of shops built into the stone cliffs that broke through the otherwise open space of the city. Though she preferred the wilderness outside Vellweb's walls and the peace the water offered her, there was something about being able to poke at various goods and wares that delighted her.

The sky was already overcast, the clouds thick, dark and ominous. The knowledge of what would occur soon had made her restless. It was embarrassing to excitedly tick off each day in anticipation of a rainstorm, but she had, one by one until seven days had passed. Father had been fond of saying it was the curse of her blood— maybe he was right about that.

"_You'll always be waiting for something you'll never be able to have, my girl."_

Due to the looming thunderheads, most of the villagers who lived in the lower reaches of the city were hurrying about as well, desperate to get a head start on the day's work before they had to cut it short because of the weather.

Feeling a jolt as someone roughly shouldered past her, she murmured an apology cut short by the wide-eyed, almost horrified stare of the man who realized too late who she was.

"F—" he sucked in a deep breath, fingers fumbling in a way that made her wonder if he was trying not to make a warding sign, "forgive—"

Fighting way her horrified embarrassment, she just shook her head and continued on her way,wringing a handful of water from her skirt. _'I am not going to sulk today.' _The smell of roasting meat and unwashed bodies, of too many people packed into too small a space made her wrinkle her nose. She marveled that the others were able to ignore the looks the refugees gave them; awe, respect mixed with a dollop of fear. The latter was usually reserved for her; there were always those warding signs, parents skittering up and apologetically pulling away curious children who strayed too close to her. She squared her shoulders determinedly, forcing herself to brush that all aside. It—was—going—to—be—a—beautiful—day.

Yes, absolutely _beautiful_, never mind that she and Belzac were still arguing with one another. _'Stop thinking about it!'_

Suddenly, she was all too tempted to stamp her foot into the ground and scream at the top of her lungs. _'I'll do just fine at Mayfil. They need me there.'_ Belzac could just sit around and worry all he liked, because she _would_ be going with the rest of them.

Damia realized belatedly she _was_ in fact stomping. She glanced about, brows furrowing at the general 'looks' aimed at her direction. Some were amused, some bewildered… "Ah…"

It just seemed like a good idea to go someplace _else_ after that. The girl-woman tugged at her clinging skirts, their sopping cloth clinging to her legs as she hurried along, navigating the twists and turns of the city with ease. She couldn't help but feel glad she wasn't getting lost anymore. Early on, she'd get so confused that Belzac had had to take her _everywhere_-- _'You're thinking about it—'_ Shirley had helped her, too, sometimes bringing Kanzas with her. 'Dragging' would have been a more appropriate way of putting it. _'Oh—dammit!'_

Mildly frustrated with herself, she hurried up the steps that lead to the wide, circular pathway that surrounded their towers. She could feel heat radiating from them even there, smoke curling from tiny chimneys situated unobtrusively near the back of the steepled rooftops. Even her own tower had one, though she wouldn't actually start using it until autumn passed into winter.

A chill ran down her spine, a bit of movement stirring near the corner of her eye. A horrified gasp escaped her; she took a startled step back. She was so close to the edge of the path that _that_ was a mistake. She cried out again at the sensation of vertigo, arms wind milling about comically—

Kanzas twisted as he rose from his crouch, seemingly unconcerned by the fact she could plummet to her death at any moment. His fingers grasped the edge of her sleeve, yanking her back to more solid footing. "Here you are too small to make much of a smear down there. Wait until there's more of you."

"You might have gotten me killed!" It came out as a near shriek as she jabbed a finger at him, feeling it bump up against his chest. "My _spirit_ wasn't full— and—and—why did you _jump_ from up there? That must've been ten feet—"

"Storm's coming," he stated mildly, releasing his grip on her wet sleeve and allowing his fingers to brush over the back of her hand for the briefest moment.

The quick caress silenced her and she yanked back her own poking hand as if touching him burned her. "Don't. You scared me."

"Then stop loitering outside my tower if you don't want me dropping in on you." He snorted, studying her expression intently as the splotchy spread over her too-pale face. She twirled her hair out there, too, waiting around and always looking like she wasn't wishing _someone_ would step outside. Though, she had to be waiting, otherwise she wouldn't be there. "Quit waving bait around if you're afraid of catching a fish."

It was getting difficult to hold on to the anger, mortification and a queer sort of excitement thrumming through her. Her first reaction was to try and step around him, though he gripped her shoulder, pushing her easily against a wall. He didn't hold her tightly, and if she wanted she'd easily be able to shrug his hand off.

Part of her had hoped that the strange glances from him lately, the unintentional brushes up against her in hallways—that all of that had just been in her mind. The other half of her had obviously decided that it would be a good idea to loiter around the area of his tower so that she might 'accidentally' run into him.

Choosing to frown at him some more rather than try to scramble away, she mumbled, "Let go."

Sliding his hand off to the side, Kanzas let it rest against the wall. "The pair of us are needing to do some talking."

Inexplicably, she thought of the plain-faced boy she'd met at the bonfires back home the year before, how they'd snuck off into the bushes like so many of the others their age to celebrate the arrival of spring. Then, she recalled the one after _that_. She wasn't very experienced, but she wasn't stupid, either. "I said," Damia began, reaching up to tug slightly at the arm so close to her face. To her relief, he allowed her to pull it away, the gauntleted right arm dropping back down to his side, "I was sorry about the—" It was hard to even form the word, "-- _biting._"

He noticed with some amount of smugness that she hadn't turned down the unspoken offer yet. _'Good.'_ Kanzas had never been in the habit of forcing himself on unwilling women, and Damia was right at the age where she'd go off with a man like him, if only to prove some ridiculous point to, oh, say, Belzac. _'"See? See? I'm all grown-up now. Hell."'_ "I don't want to talk about my bloody arm or what you do with your fingernails. Nearly plummeting to your death makes you a real pain in my ass, know that?"

"Well—it—it should!"

Kanzas folded his arms over his chest and breathed in the smell of her, feeling a droplet of rain spatter on the back of his neck. _'Nice,'_ he thought vaguely. He didn't tend to stick his nose into the hair of his fellow Dragoons, but the smell of her own tangled mess of it was pleasing.

Years had passed since his last trip down south to the tropical island waters, but each visit, he'd noticed a definite scent about the villagers who lived there. Salt was as precious in this land as glass itself was, and he noted that she smelled of those seafaring folk, like an islander with the salt-tang on their skin. It was sharper, more pleasing to the warrior than the heavy musk or flowery oils that Rose and Shirley preferred to wear.

"But I didn't scra—"

"Never _mind!_"

They glared briefly at one another before Damia shied away a little, leaving Kanzas wondering if this was even worth pursuing at all. He rolled his neck about lazily on his shoulders, cursing silently to himself at the sudden scuffing of boots over the stone walkway.

Heavy footsteps with a strange clanking undertone; Syuveil's movements were quieter, almost hesitant, while Belzac's steps had a louder sound with more silence in between them due to his long strides. The Thunder Dragoon had spent hours listening to each and every one of them, enough to pick the sound of each individual… _teammate_ from the bustling servants, stomping guards and noisy refugees. _'Damn.' _Swearing out loud this time, he moved back and turned on his heel in that oily-slick, serpentine way that made it seem as if he'd managed it all in one motion. "Being interrupted," he muttered, "isn't any fun at all, is it? I'll come to you tonight once the sky starts screaming. Then you can decide whatever the fuck you want to do about this."

She watched him go, wrapping her arms tightly about herself as she shivered, wetting her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. "You—you still could have killed me!" She gulped in a deep draught of air, thinking on heavy rainfalls and wild crackles of lightning before she turned toward the approaching Zieg, raising her hand in a shaky greeting. For some reason, she had to fight down an impulse to solidly smack the Fire Dragoon upside the head.

He was pulling a comb through his sleep-tousled hair, huffing and puffing as he straightened neat, pressed clothing with his free hand.Even fresh out of bed, staggering around like he did, he managed to exude that strange aura that _drew_ people to him, and Damia straightened her own rumpled dress at the sight of him. However, her attention was quickly drawn back to the warrior who had his backed turned to her. Kanzas, darned Kanzas who prowled about like an animal. "So—if you'll go away now, then—"

Kanzas disappeared down the steps without any indication he was even listening, or paying any attention to her whatsoever, and she sputtered with dismay. "Then—I can go talk to Zieg! Zieg; good morning!"

The young woman flinched at how shrill and manic she sounded, pressing that same hand to her lips as she shuffled self-consciously. It was pulled away quickly as Zieg headed on past, grasping at her wrist to pull her along behind him. "Hey—"

'_Rosie, you were supposed to wake me up!'_ "Morning to you, too," he gasped breathlessly, sparing her the quickest of glances. _'Looking that flushed, she ought to be bundling up more._' Damn Vellweb for being so cold, anyway."By Fate, I'm glad to see you! I thought I was the only one who overslept!"Now, he wouldn't be the only one to get there late_. 'Mother's going to headlock me for sure.'_

There was something wrong when one's mother was capable of taking out three large, drunken men in a bout of fisticuffs. He'd know, after all; he'd been there when Charle had done it.

"Over—"

"Mother's on her way!"

Startled for the second time that morning, Damia yelped, stumbling a little clumsily as she attempted to keep up with his long, rushed strides. "Now? B—but the messenger told me Lady Charle wasn't going to be here until the sun went high—" A quick glance up at the dim light of the sun filtering through dark clouds indicated that she had _more_ than her fair share of time. It explained why she'd seen Kanzas so early in the day, and why Rose was hurrying from her tower just as Damia'd pushed open her windows to let in the fresh, cold air.

"They said she said that, right? That's how it is with my mother; she says she'll do things one way and then does it the way she really wants. All without letting a word of it slip. If she says it'll be before the sun goes high, then it's because she's planning on surprising everyone."

This struck her as rather confusing, but it was easy enough to tell Charle Frahma wasn't entirely there. There were rumors of things, horrible things that had happened during the battle with the God of Destruction so long ago and what it had done to her mind. Though they'd only met once, she'd liked Charle well enough, even if she was a little intimidating.

"Hey," he stated quietly, slowing in his jog until the two of them were moving at a rushed sort of walk. Odd, seeing as how he was in such a hurry a moment ago. "If someone's giving you a hard time, you don't have to stand there and let them do whatever they want, right?"

Had he _overheard_ them? If he had, she really _would_ throw herself over the edge of the trail. She swallowed, feeling heat suffuse her face and the back of her neck. "N—no? Because, I—"

He hopped down the last couple of steps, the muddy ground of the city's lower level squelching beneath his boots.

"What? Because you don't mind, right?"

"I don't," she argued, a bit feebly.

Zieg heaved a cross between a sigh and a growl, reaching over to muss her fuzzed hair in a brotherly sort of way. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," was all he said.

Damia hadn't thought she protested much at _all_, but gave him a little shrug followed by a quick smile. "Can we just go, please? If you're late the way we said—"

"—then _Mother_—"

It was a strange thing, for a Wingly to raise a Human child as her own. Though he'd spent most of his life as her 'servant boy', in private Charle had always been 'Mother' to him. There was no Wingly blood in his veins, but he had spent most of his life amongst the citizens of Ulara. After the death of his Human mother, it had been Charle who had rescued him on the streets of Kadessa. He'd been no more than a small, crying child then. No questions about his master, his parents—nothing. One minute he was alone and then she was there, standing over him and seeming larger than life as she stared down at him with an oddly serious look on her too-young face.

The questions were written across Damia's own features, as they were every time he mentioned his 'Mother' to her. He made no move to tell her any of it—because she didn't actually _ask._ "Agh, dammit! Let's just go."

He ruffled her hair again, causing her to grimace and try to smooth down the mess of it. "But we'll talk later. When there's time, okay?"

That would be nice. She pulled her fingers away from a little snarl and nodded at the taller figure, irritated at the childish touch but happy to feel the contact all at the same time. "I'd really like—"

Another yelp as she was hurried along, her clunky, mannish boots squishing and squelching in the mud with each rushed step she took. "Zieg, you run around too much!"

Her only response was an amused chuckle. She secretly thought it sounded much nicer than Kanzas' own laughter with its sharp, knife-edge of self-loathing. But Kanzas had warmer hands.

The dull, loud hum of a Wingly ship in the distance caught his laugh, snatching it away as the smooth, silver outline of the vessel took shape in the early morning sky.

* * *

The council chamber was best described as a 'cozy' room, small to the point of being cramped and possessing only a few small, arched windows lacking the glass paneling found throughout the rest of the palace. Though some servant had taken great pains to make this area seem as open as possible, the long table and the array of chairs dominated the area and left little space for the eight unfortunate people crammed inside. 

Despite the chill that drifted in from the open windows, the air carried a sour sweat tang of too many people stuck in too small of a space. More than once, feet accidentally bumped against feet and elbows unintentionally dug into sides. If things were different, Kanzas would have been quite pleased to watch Belzac struggle to keep himself still as possible. The half-Giganto was suffering the worst of it, every motion he made causing his knees to crack painfully against the edge of the table.

Shirley, saint that she was, was doing her very best _not_ to snap at her husband. Kanzas figured it was her own fault for sitting next to him when she _knew_ what would happen. Every time they jammed themselves in here like they were demented preserves jammed into a jar, things turned out this way. No one had enough room, it smelled bad and sooner or later, they got _twitchy._

The rest of the lot was trying to cover their frustrations with laughter and thin smiles; easy enough for them considering what was happening at the moment. It was nice to see the oh-so-confident Zieg Feld twitch from time to time, but not if it meant having to listen to _this_ garbage. He'd always equated the sound of Charle Frahma's voice with nails on a chalkboard or a bad illness that caused boils to break out on a man's nether regions. _'Biased? Not one bit.'_

"—and you've been eating all your vegetables like a good boy?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Drinking a glass of milk a day?"

"Yes, Mother."

Situations like these made Kanzas wish he carried a crossbow with him. He noted that his cousin _oh-so-coincidentally_ happened to have brought hers today and wondered if she might let him borrow it for the brief period of time it would take to drop Charle and Zieg like a sack of manure. Oh, shooting a leader of the rebellion and a fellow Dragoon wouldn't score him any points with Shirley, Syuveil or anyone else he actually gave two shits about, but—

"And you're getting along well with all your little friends? Not fighting with Kanny anymore?"

'_Gods'_ he thought darkly to himself, feeling his gaze stray down to the bow resting over the scuffed surface of the table. _'Give it to me, cousin. Just—give me the bow—'_ As if she sensed what he was thinking, the White-Silver Dragoon looked to him and frowned, her brows furrowing. _'Bow! Now!'_

Syuveil tactfully cleared his throat from where he sat beside 'Kanny', doing his best to ignore the fits of snickering the others were so obviously struggling with. None of them had escaped Charle's unfortunate habit of nicknaming… most anyone; he didn't particularly _like_ being referred to as 'Yuvee.' He felt himself tense automatically, butting rudely into the conversation. _'Damn you, Kanzas, I know that look.'_ "Lady Charle, forgive my interruption," he began, the sole individual unaffected by the tense humor of the situation, "but could we get back to the subject at hand?"

Death City Mayfil. Now he had no choice but to believe in the Divine Tree and the Creator. '_If I believe, then, do I believe it's been Soa's will the Winglies are allowed to damn us to darkness spread out on the tip of nothing?'_Death City Mayfil. Now, now he had no choice but to believe in the Divine Tree and the Creator. '_If I believe, then, do I believe it's been Soa's will the Winglies are allowed to damn us to darkness spread out on the tip of nothing?'_

Humans brought back to the living on the brink of death said that about the city, always._"It is as darkness spread out on the tip of nothing."_

Was Hell inevitable, or could Fate be _changed?_ The scholar felt his mind go hazy for a second, hands clenching to fists beneath the table as he thought of Mari, their children, the poor, lost son in Aglis. _'Shattering Fate,_ he thought whimsically, feeling his jaw set itself in a determined line. _'You'd make such a poor poet.'_

Zieg reached over, nudged him slightly to shake him from his daze. "Hey," he said under his breath, not unkindly. Syuveil blinked a couple of times, flush with embarrassment as he turned his attention back to Charle. The others were staring, he knew. He didn't have to look around the table to know that.

The Wingly woman tapped a finger to her chin as she toward the pale-faced scholar. _'My, he's got more energy than the last time I saw him.'_ Only a fool would fail to realize he was dying.

It was such a pity Shirley hadn't been able to stave off the sickness slowly taking over his body. The little dear really was done for. Not only would his death mean the loss of a brave, brilliant man—it would be inconvenient. If these had been different times, she would have encouraged him to take his leave elsewhere; Vellweb's damp, cold clime was hard on the sickly and he hadn't fared well here. However, they were at war now and there was nothing to be done for him. _'Poor lad.'_ "Ah! Direct and honest as ever—and so polite about it, too."

'_Soa.'_ The man rubbed at his temples and sighed. Of all the names he could have had, she had to settle on 'Yuvee'.

'_We divide up, we break the generators and kill who we can on the way. Easy as pie, Frahma,'_ the Thunder Dragoon thought to himself, more than a little arrogant. His thumb pressed up against a broken shard of pebble digging through the thick leather of his beltpouch and into the skin of his hip. _'Sharp as a knife, that.'_

Kanzas allowed his attention to drift as the planning continued, suffering from a bit of a headache and an intense urge to kick Rose from underneath the table. He'd seen the smirk flash over her face when Charle had turned from Zieg to him, waving that damned _'Kanny'_ in the air like the name was some kind of goddamned banner. _'Look, look, I called him something silly!'_ That was the way things went with bad blood—he'd continue to annoy the hell out of her and she'd do the same thing. Feld was welcome to her and whatever cold comforts her bed provided him.

Rose absently patted Damia's small hand as she, too, listened to the conversation, occasionally volunteering her opinion on this and that. The girl had been mildly distracted all morning and she couldn't really blame her with all that had been happening lately. She blinked wearily a couple of times, wishing she'd slept more these past weeks. Worrying about the attack wasn't going to do _any_ of them any good; not her, not Kanzas, not overprotective Belzac who was still trying to get Damia to remain behind. "Almost over," she whispered to the teal-haired girl, receiving a shy smile from her in response.

"I like this," Damia confided just as quietly, ignoring the sudden prickle at the back of her neck. Someone was-- _watching._ _'Again.'_ It gave her a sort of giddy, nervous feeling, along with a sudden surge of self-righteousness reserved for Belzac. She shot a little glare at the half-Giganto before brushing away the distraction. There were more _important_ things to think about right now.

The dark shape of the spear-shooter left an ugly blot in the sky, barely visible through one of the windows just behind Damia's chair. Nothing more than a useless bit of junk now, the shooter hovered just above the city. Kanzas shifted his weight, thinking the Wingly device looked rather strange without the huge spear that had shot Flanvel Tower from the sky. Readying that damned thing had been the biggest part of the battle—picking off those who managed to escape before the spear hit— Lady General Veron, a handful of soldiers—that had been the easy part. _'Even if the scholar's damned Dragon is in pieces in his tower now; Syuveil, sometimes you're just plain fucked up.'_

He'd heard Diaz and Charle bickering over their Wingly communicators some nights back; there were concerns that Frahma would send a legion of his fellow fluttery bastards to start salvaging from the tower. It was a rather stupid idea in his opinion, and indicated just how much the Wingly dictator still underestimated them.

All those soldiers and mechanics would be like sitting ducks. He flexed his gauntleted hand, lips curving in anticipation at the idea. The smile faded at the stinging pain of a large foot pressing firmly against his shinbone, someone's silent statement that he wasn't paying enough attention to what was going on around him. _'Belzac, I know that was you—'_

The half-breed Giganto received a cross look for his trouble, but Kanzas felt his headache pound even harder at the calm, almost placid look in Belzac's milk-pale eyes. "Stop it," he muttered with soft malice. On the subject of fighting—most of Gloriano would've been able to hear _Belzac's_ little argument a few nights back. A certain inexperienced warrior hadn't taken kindly to the Earth Dragoon's suggestion she stay behind on the mission to Mayfil. Not many people expected silly _Damia_ to be able to screech like that; they'd woken him up far too early for his taste and he hadn't taken kindly to it.

"Pay attention," Belzac advised just as softly as Zieg had earlier, unimpressed by the warning glare on his 'kinsman's' face. This all had the feel of a show to him, ceremony on Charle's part to show them that, 'hey, we Winglies are still around.' She always brought some interesting bit of news or something to contribute to the welfare of the city, however—and he liked the woman, so he didn't mind the run-around of it.

'_You know, I'm going fuck your favorite charge,_' Kanzas thought at the teacher, not at all concerned by his own arrogance, _'Tit for tat. You took what's mine and now I'm going to get something important of yours.'_

Shirley wouldn't care to be thought of as a 'something', but as she couldn't read minds, he saw no reason to worry about it. Nor the vaguely irritated looks he was getting from the others. He grunted back at them and folded his arms over his chest in exasperation, "I'm _paying attention_, all right?"

Charle opened her mouth to continue with whatever she'd been saying, only to be interrupted by Kanzas' very deliberate, "Highness. That is what I should call you, right?" The disheveled Wingly stiffened as if she'd been slapped and it was only Rose's steadying hand on Zieg's arm that kept the man from starting forward.

'_Damn you to hell, Kanzas,'_ the swordswoman fumed. Tensions were running high as the attack on Mayfil drew ever closer and she was reminded briefly of the wedding feast. Back then it was Zieg helping _her_ keep her temper in check. "Let it be," she told him simply.

Damia shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, studying Shirley's expression of disappointment from the corner of one eye. "Can—"

The tiny voice went mostly unnoticed as Charle turned to face Kanzas, offering him her most pleasant smile and inclining her head to him courteously. "Feel free to call me whatever you like, Kanny."

'_What I'd call you-? Bitch.'_ He felt Shirley's discontentment with the situation almost tangibly; resenting her suddenly for the expectations she always seemed to have of him. He didn't even think she was aware of it, but every time he joined them in a council or went off to train some of the Human soldiers, some tiny part of her would be thinking, _'This time, maybe this time he'll do better—'_

_Thistime, this timethis time thistime he would—_

Shirley sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Not more than an hour in council and this was already happen. _'Not this. Again?' _"We shouldn't be fighting with one another—especially not now."

His left hand throbbed suddenly, sharply and he gasped, realizing distantly the others were watching him all over again. _'Damn.'_ He wriggled his fingers about slightly, shaking away the pins-and-needles numbness that followed. Strangely enough, it didn't strike him as a physical pain, but he was familiar enough with the damage the bond _could_ do to him that it seemed like it _was_ real. Strange how it happened every time he had to deal with the Frahma woman. "I'll remember that," he ground out.

"Kanzas, you're out of _line!"_ It was fairly obvious Zieg was on the verge of losing his temper. If there was one person Kanzas disliked as much as Diaz, it was Charle Frahma. This put an obvious strain on things, as the Fire Dragoon, bluntly put, adored his mother.

"I know," the other man agreed, a disturbing level of seriousness in his voice, "I never could stop talking back to my betters—"

It was Shirley who spoke now, a sharp, slightly horrified exclamation of, _"Kanzas!"_

Whenever anyone reprimanded him for something, they always made certain to say his name _just_ so...

Kanzas, stop doing this, Kanzas, stop doing that, Kanzas, you shame us— KanzasKanzas_Kanzas_—

"_Kanzas,_ please. Lady Charle, I'm—I am so sorry. He hasn't been sleeping well these past couple of nights and I'm afraid everyone's affected by the Death City. It isn't always… _like_ this."

'_Don't you dare try to justify everything to her, Shirley. Don't.'_ Forcing himself to remain silent, Kanzas pressed his finger against the shard in his belt pouch, ignoring the heat of too many bodies crammed into one area, and as best he could, Charle's presence. When she was near, it was as tough to mind his tongue as it was around Diaz. His own lack of control, along with the increasing frequency of these moments unsettled him.

'_Leave when you can, get some fresh air. Be a man and deal with it._ Y_ou're going to give yourself away if you don't learn better.'_

She and the Emperor would be summoning him later, he expected, after the inevitable argument that would follow when Diaz learned he'd missed the meeting. Too bad he was 'accidentally' given the wrong time.

Charle waved a pale, white hand in the air to dismiss the apology with the easy grace of the nobility, her skirts fluttering as she rose from her seat, pacing around the crowded room and causing the rest of them to shift about uncomfortably. "I think we should take a short reprieve from these tiresome things, don't you?"

His eyes became half-closed slits as he hissed out a relieved sigh, trying not to bolt out of his chair as one by one, the thankful Dragoons began to file from the room. Zieg and Rose were the first to follow her, then Shirley. She reached out to pinch his arm slightly as she passed, reproving. Kanzas swatted half-heartedly at her in response, knowing she would be waiting out in the hall for him whenever he 'nonchalantly' left the chamber.

Damia came next, casting a hesitant, worried little look at him, as if she were afraid of what he might do. Lumbering Belzac, who would likely be pulling_her_ aside to try and smooth things over between the two of them-- funny that she'd be trying to get out of Belzac's clutches as quickly as he'd be trying to escape Shirley's. He could tell by the expression on her face.

That left him alone with quietly coughing Syuveil, who had folded his arms over his chest much in the same way Kanzas had earlier. Unrepentant, Kanzas stared back, unclasping the buckle that held the pouch closed. "Spare me your disappointment. I'll be getting it from Shirley in about ten seconds and I will be goddamned if I'll apologize for something I'd planned to say since Frahma got here."

"I'm afraid I can't rightly call it 'disappointment' when what I really want to do is give you a swift kick in the arse, Kanzas."

"Good, that's better. I hate expectations."

The Wind Dragoon blinked, feeling that tingle of realization run down his neck, that tiny bit of instinct that stated, 'You're about to get hit by something.' He reached up suddenly, closing his fingers about the sliver of stone that suddenly hurtled towards his head. The contact of it against his skin made the hairs on his arms rise and he gaped down at the shriveled sliver of Divine Tree fruit stupidly.

"I found this," Kanzas stated flatly. "Don't talk to me about it because I won't tell you how I did." He left his friend sitting there in silence as he left, his thoughts turning towards the way Damia's small, thin back had looked beneath her dress. It was time to go face the music; if he had to listen to things he didn't want to hear, he might as well get a nice sexual fantasy brewing in his mind to keep him occupied.

* * *

No one had been surprised by the sudden fall of rain and arcs of lightning that illuminated the dark clouds, least of all the Dragoon sitting primly on the small, claw-footed chair in the corner of her room. She'd felt its presence days before the first droplet of it landed on the snow-covered ground and would have welcomed its arrival right then and there had the others not been around. 

Things had calmed down shortly after the meeting, though she'd been too flustered and annoyed to really talk to Belzac, instead rushing off with Rose and Zieg before much of anything could be resolved. For a little while, she'd trained with the two of them before noticing the looks they kept giving one another with a definite amount of embarrassment. She'd excused herself not long after, leaving them to their secretive laughter and caresses that were far more obvious than they realized they were. It had been nice to get out in the rain for a while, so she hadn't minded getting away.

Droplets of rain pattered over the water at her floor, glass windowpanes pushed open on every side of the room so that she could feel the storm more fully. Damia cast a quick glance over her shoulder as she stubbornly tugged the brush through snarls of teal hair, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue as she saw the steep staircases winding about the towers were still empty. _'Belzac's right,'_ she grudgingly admitted to herself. _'I am like a little girl—but not for the reasons he was saying!'_ He didn't really know as much as he thought he did, and the realization of it _grated_ at her all the time. Well, everything seemed to grate at her these days, but that wasn't really the point.

The bristles of the gilt-edged brush were thickly twined with strands of hair that had broken at the ends or been yanked right out of the scalp by the relentless tugging. The top of her head was starting to hurt more and more, but at least her hair was looking better. It was still a disheveled tangle that she'd always tried and failed to keep neat—like her dresses.

Leaning forward, she blew softly on the plate of polished silver that served as her mirror, watching the warmth of her breath fog the surface. "Why are you doing this, huh?" she asked the pale face with its mask of glittering scales and thin, colorless lips. 'Sitting in here and waiting for—for—" Her face warmed and she had glance away from the mirror for a second.

If she didn't know any better, she'd think her blurry reflection seemed somewhat mocking. 'I know what you're trying to do!' is what it would say if she asked what it was thinking.

"Well, I didn't ask!" is what she mumbled back at it, though she really… had been talking to it. Sort of. Just a little.

Not really wanting to sit around and argue with herself—_'just a little--!'—_any longer, she busied herself with dealing with a couple of blemishes dotting her jaw, dabbing a bit of healing potion on them from a bottle on the table. It was rare, valuable stuff that she'd felt guilty buying for this reason, but she still hoarded the mixture as if it were a priceless treasure. There was a brief sting as the small bumps smoothed themselves from the teenager's skin, causing her to grin a little indulgently as she capped off the glass container.

Just a little walk out in a storm, around the towers and along the pathways winding about them—and she'd bring her cloak with her, so that the chill wouldn't make her fall ill. It wasn't likely to happen; the hot summers back in the East were what had really taxed her health. Whether or not she needed the itchy thing, the important thing was that it _looked_ proper. _'I'm not waiting for him. Not.'_

On the way out the door, Damia snatched up the heavy woolen garment, pinning it at the neck with its simple brass brooch and flipping the hood over her head in an attempt to keep her haphazardly combed hair from frizzing up in the rain.

The door, swelled by the damp, caught once on the way out, forcing her to tug hard on the heavy brass ring to pull it shut. "Stupid thing…"

"If you're going to throw names around right off the bat, I'll just leave."

Squeaking in surprise, the flesh-eater's daughter went stiff as a board and wondered _why_ things like this always happened to her. _'Things like this—'_ Being caught off-guard, talking to inanimate objects. Somehow, even wrestling with her door managed to seem embarrassing when _that man _popped out of nowhere. _'You don't have mud up your nose, so—'_

The walkway tended to curve around the round walls of the tower and if she craned her head just right, she could see part of his leg draped over the edge. _'Who lurks around corners, anyway? It's the second time today.'_ Regarding the dangling foot with considerable wariness, she grasped the edges of her cloak and pulled them together so that the daring—_'deliberate—' _lack of bodice lacings wouldn't catch his attention. It was an immodest thing for a woman to do, usually meaning she was preparing to meet a lover. _'You did it because—shut up, I didn't, I didn't—'_

'Go away! I wasn't talking about you!' is what she considered saying. As she circled around the narrow path to hesitantly stop in front of the sitting man, what came out was, "Are you worried about going to the Death City? I hear you see ghosts there." She hadn't known she was going to say that until she actually did, and she braced herself for some disdainful, unkind remark. Maybe she'd lied to herself. Maybe she _was_ a little scared. _'A bit. No more than that.'_

'_Worried? No. I'll see who I'll see and that will be that.'_ Kanzas shifted, trailing a surprisingly slow gaze over her, from bare feet to the hood of her cloak. "I want you." It was a grudging admission, though he said it casually enough. He never really had cared for the courting games men and women tended to play with one another—not unless it involved a good old-fashioned mind-fuck. Right now, he wasn't in the mood to play too many games with this one; that might change, or it might not.

Her eyes went wide and her cheeks a splotchy red, just the way he'd expected. _'Tch. So damn young.'_ Still old enough to be sneaking off to a haystack with some farmer's son. "But considering the fact I planted you against a wall this morning, you already know that. Question is—what are you going to do about it?"

The bright flicker of lightning drew his attention from her for the briefest of moments, a wild flash of grin pulling at his mouth. _'Yes or no, Damia, it's no skin off my back in the end. I won't be the last man to sate myself with a tavern harlot.'_ "No reason to let your bed stay cold. Haven't you heard what they've been drilling into our heads? We're going to 'Hell' soon."

Water ran down his body in rivulets, dripping to the ground in small pools that were immediately swept into the mass of rainwater that flowed down the hewn staircase. He tugged fingers through his hair carelessly. The damp had washed the waxes Eastern warriors used to spike their hair out of the russet mess. His hair now matted itself to his scalp, still mussed but not nearly as spiky. It softened the harsh angles of his face—just a little.

"P—puh?"

"Either it's 'okay, milord, let's do this,' or 'Kanzas, do return to the hole you crawled out of.'"

'_I can't— I thought maybe I might with him but I really can't--'_ "Y—you and—" Confronted with such bluntness about the slowly growing tension between them, she couldn't do much more than stutter. Realizing she wasn't going to get _anywhere_ the way she was now, she held up one trembling finger to indicate she needed a moment. Without waiting for a reply, she whirled and bolted back into the tower.

One brow lifted at the loud slamming of the door. _'Still worth it?'_ Possibly. If it got the need for her out of his system. Edging back some, Kanzas flung back his head to feel the rain more fully against his face. As thunder echoed in his ears, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the woman inside rather than the looming, mechanical mess that would be the Death City. Privately, he thought it would be very cold there and carry that flower-sweet smell of rot. _'Ghosts. Hah. Come and say hello when I get there, then, if you've got the balls to do so. '_

Fear wasn't something allowed to a Dragoon, because the Fate of Vellweb was resting on their winged shoulders, goddamned lucky bastards they were. The slight, biting sting of the wind made him grit his teeth a bit, making him realize all over again how damned _cold_ it was in these parts. Small price to pay when one considered how much it had been raining lately.

Damia's feet made soft thumping sounds as she looked desperately about the watery interior of her room, nearly bopping herself upside the head with one of her own wildly shaking hands. She jumped up and down a couple more times, making a ridiculous little squealing noise that she hoped he couldn't hear. _'What am I going to do? He just said he wanted to— agh!'_

The bedsheets weren't clean—the chambermaid that had been assigned to her hadn't been by today, probably distracted by the fuss that had accompanied Lady Charle's arrival. Water sloshed as she rushed over to the raised platform that served as her bed, frantically pulling up the coverlet and trying to smooth the wrinkles from it. _'But we're not even friends. Maybe it's a bad idea.' _He didn't really like _her_ either. For so long, he'd always seemed to think of her as a little girl. No, worse than that. It was as if she was something not even worth noticing. She could count the number of times on her hand that he'd actually _looked_ at her before Shirley's wedding.

"_I don't think you're ready for Mayfil, Damia. Not yet."_

To be thought of as a hindrance when she carried such responsibility stung. Right now was _not_ the best time to be thinking about what _Belzac_ thought.

"_You're acting like a child."_

It was that easily, with _that_ recollection that Damia realized she had an answer for Kanzas. It might have been out of defiance of _all_ the others and to prove that she _wasn't_ incapable of making her own decisions. Or it might've been because of the storms in her dreams and how cold and empty her bed was. _'Is this cheap?'_ She wanted to fall in love—but not with him. He didn't love her and honestly, his words were still too unkind for her to really think of him as some fairytale knight. _'Does this count as standing up to him? I guess not.'_ With her heart still racing, she stepped away from her bed. Hesitant fingers pushed open the folds of cloak about her, revealing the loose bodice of her water-stained dress.

"Are you scared?" is what he asked her, a mocking drawl to his voice as she opened the door to find him standing _right_ there. And she lied as she stepped back to let him in, gripping a wrist and bringing it to her lips even though she was shaking so badly she could barely stand. "Nope." _'No. I meant 'no.' _

Kanzas trailed his tongue over his bottom lip, inhaling shakily as her teeth brushed over the knuckles of his hand, stopping at the oiled leather of his gauntlet before trailing gently back over fingers. "Good."  
"Good."

"All right."

"Yes."

"Damia?"

"Uhm?"

"Stop talking."

She bit back a hesitant, slightly panicked laugh, fingering a ragged gap of a tear in the cloth of his shirt. The heavy gray of his cloak had hidden it until she'd pushed back the heavy wool. Thick ridges of scar tissue were glaringly obvious under the rip, gray-purple and healed shiny by time. Her thumb poked shyly at the place as she glanced up at him, feeling a sudden, silly urge to try to delay what was about to happen here, in this room. "Did it really almost kill you? The Dragon whose spirit—"

The rest of her question was snatched away by the sudden, almost painful pressure of his mouth against hers; effectively silencing the conversation she was trying to stretch out. Excitement threaded through her belly and—

_in the end it was disjointed thoughts and stroking hands, nails digging into flesh, gasps and her teeth oh dammit her teeth sinking into his shoulder all his pleasure and frustration and rage and pain there to taste, hotcopper—_

_fucking hell it should have hurt him to feel it goddamned half-Human bitch trying to devour him_

_but GodGoddessandDivineTree he wanted it that way, that animal she could be ripping him apart, taking everything he had to give her with that bloody redpaintsmear of a smile on her face_

_someone should paint her there, like this, underneath him_

_He thought she might have screamed his name, a mad, frenzied Dragon's screech but by then it didn'tmattertohimanymore--

* * *

_

Dear God, it only took me six months to get this done. I'll be honest and say I considered scrapping this chapter—I don't like it, and no amount of revision made me like it. On the other hand, I didn't want to spend another six months getting another part out. Heh, hopefully, the next chapter will be better.

As for the automatic squickfactor of fifteen year-olds and their, uh, activities—if this were any time but a medieval era, I wouldn't hesitate to run away screaming from this concept. Thirteen or fourteen was typically around the age girls started marrying and having children back then, if I'm remembering correctly. Yes, I'm pushing the rating system a tad, but it's not exactly set up to where stuff that borders on 'R'-- or whatever letter they're using right now-- can be easily read.

As for someone commenting on Syuveil and the Stardust-- this is more or less a predecessor of the stuff. For the sake of, uh, myself, I'm pretending that the Winglies had bits of mythology about things like this laying around that inspired them to create it after the war ended.

The next chapter should finally get things rolling, I think. If you're reading this at all—well, thank you!


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